Rabbit Surgery

The victims, of course, were not generic—

one meek and retiring, the other

coquettish and playful, hopping across the

table, nibbling the scale that measured

their dose by weight and weight by life. Others

just alike will never be again. How

Blanca sported at her freedom, snuggled

at the touch. And now the sleep. And now the

tubes, a little blood, but not enough to

startle us. Yet strange on ebony and

ash. On lily white, how odd the traitor

red. We cannot call them brave—their grave a

garbage bag. They did not know. Like one who,

reaching for a five, lays down a ten instead.

Copyright © 2002-08 Abigail Hilton