Bye baby bunting daddy’s gone a hunting, to catch poor baby a rabbit skin to put poor baby bunting in. And it will weld. Those tight fissures of that mystical hare in the hill. Soft downy fluff that can tickle the cleft under the chin, just big enough to rub a thumb along, and the blood shall turn blue. A rare rare blue, a crystallised gem, studded and encrusted. The texture of peppercorns.
Not yet big enough for a skin of your own, you will always be ensnared, protected, warmth covering your slender pinky white throat.
When you kill a rabbit you clutch it by the ears with hard knotted hands you clench and strain down - an unhealthy release. It’s then malleable to your wants and needs, a meal, a fur or just a kill.
Our father shall make a harem of rabbit skins of us all.
by Morag Burn
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