Dream with a Piece of Cake

Patrick Dundon


We are in your garden
slaughtering rabbits. I like
the little shapes the blood
makes in the grass: a tongue,
an eye, a piece of cake. You
put down your knife next to
a pile of pelts, lean in for a kiss.
I feel aroused then ashamed. I want
to fuck you, but not here,
not until all the rabbits are dead.