By Stephanie Young
The rabbits at the zoo aren’t exhibits, they’re just like us: free agents who’ve come to consume garbage and taunt a more majestic class of mammals with their liberties; scads of the shivering lagomorphs casually slip in and out of the mountain goat enclosure, surely the last straw for the heavy-horned goat on the bouldered facade, fixed westward on the dusky silhouette of the not-so-distant peaks he once ruled, longing for his stoic herd, the indifference of the summit, the lover he’d mount in the privacy of vicious exposure above the treeline—it’s enough to make you ask yourself, is it alright to wear a rabbit fur coat, if I donate my own skin to the rabbits? all along knowing they could only fashion about 25 rabbit jackets from your tanned hide and at most 5 rabbit wigs from your scalp and hair, and that’s not enough to go around but life isn’t fair.
Stephanie Young is a psychologist, academic, and writer whose creative work has appeared in Twenty Bellows, Breakfast...?, BULL, Spare Parts Lit, Plainsongs Poetry Journal, and other fine literary outlets.
Art by Rae June.
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