"dripping cloud" by Fabio Sassi
Lauren Crawford | Ode to the Rabbit Call
There is no sound in the world like a distressed rabbit call.
Some will say it's different for everyone who hears it.
Some think it's the sound of a rusty Ford hood slamming shut
or the last wail of a cat birthing kittens. Is it over yet? Tell me
this is the end, she thinks. But no one knows this sound better than
teenage me getting caught red-handed stirring up mischief.
A million different Southern-style punishments whiz through
the mind within milliseconds, each more horrifying than the next,
and not knowing which it will be. Not knowing the day, the time,
the second, the memory of my own release. That sound,
that scream, was the noise my window made when I snuck out
as a teen to meet some boy across the neighborhood pond,
and waited to greet me on my return. It was the creak of the
third-to-last stair leading to the rooms where my family slept,
and the final whistle of my door wheezing shut. The rabbit's call,
the sounds of my childhood home, even my mischief brewing
a mile down the road share the same message: I will die
if I am caught. To the hunter, it sounds like dinner. Oil bubbling,
fat making that quick shushing sound, the kind they tended
to angle at me. I imagine it is worse for the rabbit in the colder
months. Within a matter of weeks, the rabbit must relearn how
to alter her own pigment to blend in with the snow. Her instincts
for survival are also changing; she must now account for hunting
season, and every god forsaken thing she does makes more noise
than it did before. Every move, every goal is an equation now.
Each step must be measured for its energy, its damage, its deadly
racket. Snow crunches underfoot, rocks tumble in an amplifying
mess down a hill, and sound carries further in the cold to all
the wrong ears in the world. I have shared the rabbit's illogical
paranoia. I feared that somehow my folks could hear my
footsteps from a neighborhood away. Could hear the iron gates
of a loverboy's home swinging its arms wide open for me.
Could even hear my mouth curling wickedly into a smile
the second I captured something for myself at last; a moment,
a thought, a free gaze at the dark, glittering sky. There is no
sound in the world like that. There is no dash, no clean shot
through a bush or under a fence that will save you once within
the sights of a dark figure, fifty yards out, holding your fate
in their hands. A mountain of pleasure in an instant,
killed by the shuck of a bullet.
Some will say it's different for everyone who hears it.
Some think it's the sound of a rusty Ford hood slamming shut
or the last wail of a cat birthing kittens. Is it over yet? Tell me
this is the end, she thinks. But no one knows this sound better than
teenage me getting caught red-handed stirring up mischief.
A million different Southern-style punishments whiz through
the mind within milliseconds, each more horrifying than the next,
and not knowing which it will be. Not knowing the day, the time,
the second, the memory of my own release. That sound,
that scream, was the noise my window made when I snuck out
as a teen to meet some boy across the neighborhood pond,
and waited to greet me on my return. It was the creak of the
third-to-last stair leading to the rooms where my family slept,
and the final whistle of my door wheezing shut. The rabbit's call,
the sounds of my childhood home, even my mischief brewing
a mile down the road share the same message: I will die
if I am caught. To the hunter, it sounds like dinner. Oil bubbling,
fat making that quick shushing sound, the kind they tended
to angle at me. I imagine it is worse for the rabbit in the colder
months. Within a matter of weeks, the rabbit must relearn how
to alter her own pigment to blend in with the snow. Her instincts
for survival are also changing; she must now account for hunting
season, and every god forsaken thing she does makes more noise
than it did before. Every move, every goal is an equation now.
Each step must be measured for its energy, its damage, its deadly
racket. Snow crunches underfoot, rocks tumble in an amplifying
mess down a hill, and sound carries further in the cold to all
the wrong ears in the world. I have shared the rabbit's illogical
paranoia. I feared that somehow my folks could hear my
footsteps from a neighborhood away. Could hear the iron gates
of a loverboy's home swinging its arms wide open for me.
Could even hear my mouth curling wickedly into a smile
the second I captured something for myself at last; a moment,
a thought, a free gaze at the dark, glittering sky. There is no
sound in the world like that. There is no dash, no clean shot
through a bush or under a fence that will save you once within
the sights of a dark figure, fifty yards out, holding your fate
in their hands. A mountain of pleasure in an instant,
killed by the shuck of a bullet.
Lauren Crawford holds an MFA in poetry from Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. A native of Houston, Texas, she is the recipient of the 2023 Willie Morris Award, a finalist for the 2024 Rash Award, third place winner of the 2024 Connecticut Poetry Award, and the second place winner of the 2020 Louisiana State Poetry Society Award. Her debut collection, Catch & Release, is forthcoming in 2025 with Cornerstone Press as part of the University of Wisconsin's Portage Poetry Series. Her poetry has either appeared or is forthcoming in Poet Lore, Passengers Journal, The Appalachian Review, Prime Number Magazine, SoFloPoJo, The Florida Review, Red Ogre Review, Ponder Review, The Midwest Quarterly, THIMBLE, The Worcester Review, The Spectacle and elsewhere. Lauren currently teaches writing at the University of New Haven and serves on the editorial teams of Iron Oak Editions, Palette Poetry, and Alan Squire Publishing Bulletin. Connect with her on Twitter @LaurenCraw4d.
Fabio Sassi is a photographer and acrylic artist. He enjoys imperfections, and reframing the ordinary in his artwork. Fabio lives in Bologna, Italy and his work can be viewed at https://fabiosassi.foliohd.com
