Rabbit Head

Here is a cancer sonnet from a series written by (me) Julie Moulds

Rabbit Head

My dog, Buddha, dunks himself entirely
in a snowbank, pulling out a head
gnawed off a rabbit, ragged and still red,
its ivory ears intact. I had to pry
it from his trapper jaws, a whiskered
John the Baptist dragged from bed.
How simple it is to be found dead
with all that rots inside us--like a fire
we failed to notice, in a hut of ice.
At some point we all hollow from within,
our disease a mottled gray or brown, that face
inside us, erased
by rain and wind.
I'm reproductive of original sin.