by Ty Phelps
They serve fancy cheese at the ice rink where
the rabbits come to skate their prayers.
They skate because of how it feels to fly on tiny blades,
how they can own steel claws that
cut and burn their
marks on the cold ice.
That the rabbits love violence is a little known fact.
The man who owns the ice rink knows,
but he’s been sworn to secrecy.
The swearing is unnecessary: he already loves secrets,
loves holding them in his kidneys till they’re hard and shiny from the churn of his spleen.
The man plates cheese in silence.
The rabbits don’t eat it, but they like the atmosphere it creates:
Cheese cut up on silver platters, crackers fanned out like geisha fans.
They feel like rich men, scheming against their foes and their wives.
The rabbits cut the ice like it’s the faces of all their sworn enemies.
They swirl those features under their tiny blades.