Mariana in the South (in front of a mirror), John William Waterhouse, ca. 1897

The many things we were told to do 
in the cut-off breeze of a slammed door—including 
what one shouldn’t wish for. 

In summer, I wished on the hill next to the house. 
Sitting there, in a static green sea, I spoke to myself. 

I promised we’d be through with this someday. 
In winter when it snowed, the hill 
was an ice-slide. At the bottom, a cage on stilts. 

Inside were the rabbits. I was made to feed them
whatnot on a plate that had lost its sheen.

Opening the white rabbit door, 
its rusted bite-sized hinges, was terrifying.
I feared the rabbits’ escape. One wished they would. 

One wished we could. I stood there, barely existing,
yet making my wish. Afterward, 
I said nothing to anyone except to myself.