As a child I pretended 
that you were a rabbit to conjure 
from a hat. You were dull 
and uncontrollable, a stringless 
marionette. First a twitch, 
then a lurch, as slowly 
I learned to tug your muted muscles—
my dear teeniest quint, from the market 
to all-the-way-home, while you 
and your fellow feral animals 
learned to follow my clumsy 
requests. I claimed you as mine; 
now you stretch with the other four 
pigs, spread wide and proud, 
with the grandeur of a morning sun 
rising over a ridge. 

shoeless run ...
a dandelion 
loosens its hill 

Bio: Kat Lehmann