We sat on the porch that winter and
talked of murder, imagined bodies trapped
beneath the breaking crust of the field.
The house whistled with broken windows,
the lead veins running through the glass
snapped and jagged, bleeding poison
into the air. And every morning
dead rabbits appeared on our doorstep
their soft necks broken. My pink feet
melted the frost as I carried them away
and I pictured the thaw dripping into
the mouths of other corpses, whose paws
reached for my heels. In the summer we stole
grain, to see if it would live. Seven years
I kept the seeds, shut in a box on my dresser
Madeleine Dale is a Brisbane-based poet. Her work can be found in Ibis House, The Tundish Review, Voiceworks and Cordite.