Rabbits on the balcony

by Emma Miao 

At night, the Yangtze floods my veins with gold.
              I goosebump the rain-stained balcony, white
lines snaking up my tendrilled feet. White: 
              the faint pattern on my belly, digging into me,
through me. But I don’t know this yet: only know Mother 
              calling from inside, her red hand beckoning. 
I know what she’d do. Fingerprint my eyes, flux
              herb water down my throat. Every night
the house a museum & my body on display
              like the rabbit, eye-locked with the crown
of the knife. Gleaming in the moonlight. The rabbit, like me,
              is soft, docile, ivory fur glossy, her legs 
bounding into the cable-bed snare. At dinner, 
              Father clatters her bones on the glass table.

Watches me knife red meat with streaked teeth. He smiles. 
              My belly, gibbous, because I am a good daughter: my eyes cast 
in deference, my cheek red & streaked. I am a good daughter 
              to suckle sweat, drudge in the trefoiled frost. The fate 
line on my palm nicked with scars. Good daughters spoon silence 
              into their mouths, so I skewer the rabbit: chew, swallow. 
The lamp beside my bed is stained with Father’s eyes. 
              The wallpaper a shredded maroon. But now: silence. 
The rain turned gold. I stick out my tongue. The flecks taste 
              like rabbits. Mother, inaudible. I close my eyes, 
picture a gold sky. Give me your hands and I will bury them. 
              Give me a river and I will swallow it whole. 
Give me a mirror and I will become the predator.
              ​We are the vessels of so many lies.