While I read, sitting on the porch
on an Indian Summer evening,
fiction in which the boy narrator
retells to his grandmother the story
of a tiger and a rabbit, the ones
from Winnie-the-Pooh, my tomcat
bounds past, mouthing the bunny
he has half-slaughtered, slinging
blood like a red-wine christening,
to remind me that our domestic
animals, no matter how cuddly, remain
killing machines, that life is short
and nature cruel, that sacrifice
allegedly pleases the capricious gods,
and helpless to do otherwise, I
mourn the young rabbit, celebrate
the formidable skill of the hunter,
drink the wine, burn some incense,
and petition divinity for mercy.
Copyright 2016
T. Allen Culpepper