Jackrabbits

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for Grandpa 

Grandma teased us 
for the time it took 
to kill one jackrabbit 
on our backyard picnic table. 
She said one quick chop 
to a neck was kindest, 
if you meant it. 

I watched. You tried. 
Each cut a little deeper 
and a jackrabbit struggled 
on oakwood planks, 
rocking a table 
into our thighs. 

We knew we were wrong. 
We were not direct 
with the blade. Grandma said, 
Mercy acts quickly 
and goes for a throat. 

I learned from you 
a precise skill of suffering.
I learned to pull back 
at just the right moment,
too late to prevent pain 
but never quite cutting through. 

And now I have to tell Grandma
you’re dying. 

She needs me to say it 
clean and direct. 
I speak of other things 
suggesting, swaying, nearing.
She watches me, eyes narrowing.
We wait with you.