I found it in the woods, moss-mottled,

hung at the jaws by a filament

of leathery flesh. We have painted it

with Chlorox, bleached it

in that chemical sun, boiled loose

the last tatters of tissue,

and made of it an heirloom,

a trophy, a thing that lasts, death’s

little emissary to an eight-year-old boy.

What should it mean to us now

in its moon-white vigil on the desk?

Light from the hallway makes it loom

puffball brilliant, and I look.

For no good reason but longing

I am here in your room,

straightening the covers, moving a toy,

and lightly stroking your head,

those actions I have learned to live by.

If we relish the artifacts of death,

it’s for a sign that life goes on

without us. On the mountains snows

we’ve seen the hare’s limited hieroglyphics,

his signature again and again

we we’ve skied. And surely

he has paused at our long tracks there,

huddled still as moonlight, and tested

for our scents long vanished in that air.