Sitting at the picnic table, I want
to get high but don’t. Rabbits
are nearby, four of them
playing in the grass, or eating the grass,
or eating something
inside of the grass, seeds maybe,
and it’s early evening
so their eating has a lightness to it,
softened by the fact of their having
survived another day.
I like how my being
motionless relaxes them.
You think my extreme
ticklishness (armpits, neck,
and nipples in particular) is some barrier
I’ve erected to stand between us,
some fear of touch,
and you’re probably right
although I’d never say so
except for now, with only
the trees listening.
This table is stained
by years of bird shit, in varying phases
of being rinsed off by the rain.
As usual, the world is refusing
to allow me to see it
fully, which is
how I know I am one of its children.
MIKKO HARVEY is the author of the poetry collections Let the World Have You (House of Anansi, 2022) and Unstable Neighbourhood Rabbit (House of Anansi, 2018). He lives in Western Massachusetts.