home song

for the year i lived in the rabbit burrow
everything was soft. above i heard my family
making funeral arrangements.
we were burying my grandmother
over & over again. she would claw her way up
from the dirt just to stand in the kitchen 
& weep. my gender divided & multiplied.
the rabbits saw me as one of them.
they taught me how to be smaller. they said,
"here is how to die when the dogs come"
& "here is how to die when the lawn mower comes."
it is an art to know exactly where you belong
or else it is the inverse of art. i have never
found a pair of socks that fit. instead 
i fill them with bones to make them organs.
calling my mother in the middle of the night
to say, "can you believe it?" the phone was
under the soil too. frozen in late february.
maybe we are all too romantic about home.
instead, i have loved deepest when it has shifted.
when i've found myself among rabbits.  when
my brother breaks one of my windows 
with a rock with a note taped to it.
the note read, "come back." i still pretend
i never saw it when i speak to him. for me
home is what is left behind. we are a history
of covering the footprints. of burning the bedroom
& saying, "i do not know what you mean
about the girl with the blue hair who lived
on noble street." she is a rabbit now.
he is a rabbit now. i find myself in a living room
where no one has been living for 
a very long time. my grandmother argues,
"and you think you're special."
i shake my head. reply, "i think i am home."