The Mower
after Philip Larkin
It was a baby rabbit.
No match for his
$5000 riding mower.
He’d seen the mother
earlier in the day,
—found the nest now
with the blade, hidden
in the thick underbrush:
the baby scampering
bloodied, squealing like
brake pads worn thin.
He stopped the mower,
went to the baby, bent
over her. There were two
large gashes lengthwise
like red suspenders on
the right side. The baby
squealed again, only now
staring—still, chest heaving.
Barely alive, he scooped
her up in his callused farm
hands, laid the baby under
a nearby tree for the mother
to find. He told me this after
our lovemaking that night
and with a callous face asked,
What should I have done?
This article appears in Jan 26 – Feb 2, 2017.