by Karen Terrey
When I opened my hand I didn’t feel anything
which isn’t to say nothing was there.
A rabbit reaps my garden – at least,
I planted it – nipping even in this morning’s
drizzle near-perfect stars of blue lupine.
Before that, stubs of violets, mallow. For weeks,
only cut evidence without the perpetrator.
The opposite of faith: agency of belief without proof.
Then flash, russet in the corner. She started out small
and now bolder. What does a rabbit need of faith,
pushing herself into the reliable earth each night?
What do poets believe in order to be poets,
pushed up against what they have to say? Please,
sweet hand, be patient for the uncertain.
Karen Terrey’s poems have appeared in Rhino, Puerto del Sol, Canary, Cider Press Review, Grey Sparrow, Kokanee and Sierra Nevada Review. Her chapbook Bite and Blood (2015) is available from Finishing Line Press. She teaches writing at Lake Tahoe Community College and Sierra College. A graduate of the Goddard College MFA in creative writing, she lives in Truckee, CA with her Cattledog Stoli.