Dead As A Rabbit

When I was a kid, I saw a rabbit get hit by a car.  It was dead on impact. 

I watched it lay there, head twisted back in a gross display of vulnerability, muscles all locked up, bones broken. I sat and waited for it to move. 

Your body lies under me, wriggling and twisting as my skin pushes up against yours. For a moment, I believe there is nothing in this world that can separate us, no disturbances or tires. 

In a flash you are lying there, morning sun spilling through the curtains, dead as a rabbit. Neck contorted. Bones broken. 

"Jamie? Jamie!” You shake me back to the present. You are not a rabbit— you are a human woman. “Baby,” you say softly, “what’s going on?” 

I saw something on a small Illinois road when I was eight. Saw a life taken by a reckless driver. Its ghost thrashes in my mind and one day, I fear it’ll be all that’s left of me. 

But for now, at least it’s moving.