My son calls to tell me
he held the two rabbits
he’d raised and was
about to kill close
to his chest, their hearts
racing, his heart full
of the blood of necessity
and qualm, his heart
filled with a song
of holy lullaby
to calm the creatures,
their warm bodies pulsing
against his, and I think,
as he falls silent on the phone,
that he will, some day—I’m
sure of it—make a good father.
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