by Avra Margariti
I don’t know why exactly I was convinced
my new classmate was a rabbit in disguise.
It had something to do with the way he quivered
the black of his eyes stretching far beyond the pupil
the ungainly long limbs.
I invited him to my house after school,
showed him my collection of four-leaf clovers,
horseshoes, pocket lighters, and pennies.
I don?t have a rabbit foot, I told him, yet,
and he looked like he wanted to bolt or lock
his body tight and taut until the danger passed.
Luck isn’t all that’s cracked up to be, he said at last
a breathy whisper under a twitching nose.
Later on the couch, we drowned
vegetables in hummus and watched nature documentaries
his black eyes glazing over like licorice candy
as my fingers played scales up and down
the pale knobs of his ankles, fragile as seashells —
another one of my lucky charms.
Blood and viscera spilling on the TV
I wondered what kind of animal I was:
another rabbit, or perhaps a fox?
I ran my tongue over my teeth, seeking
the blunt scrape of prey molars
or the starburst sharpness of a predator’s canines.
I found neither. Leaning back against the couch,
half asleep, the slight weight of his ankles in my lap,
his pulse fluttering against my fingers,
I wondered if he would like me with my teeth filed sharper
just for him.
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.
