She's got legs

She's got legs
and a terrible habit
of bumping into corners.
Such brilliant bruises
appear overnight,
blue and hazy, swirly
like a galaxy.

My rabbit died from neglect.
There was a summer storm,
and while my dinner was warming
in the oven, or maybe while
my brother and I
played tic-tac-toe
on the kitchen tiles,
poor Penny's hutch blew over,
and the metal gating broke loose
and punctured poor Penny's gut.
He was still alive, shivering,
you know, shaking off
that extra energy,
and he wouldn't blink,
his eyes were frozen black holes.
I wasn't even the one to find him.

Sometimes I'll find the marks
on her legs before she does,
and she won't remember
the culprit. I can't criticize.
My hands have secret slits
from sorting sheets of paper,
and I won't even notice a new one
until I see a red splotch
in the white above a signature,
or a streak across a manila folder.
It's really impossible to erase
that kind of stain. But at least
bruises heal, evaporate
in the skin, and at least
there are other parts
that won't bump a wooden desk
or car bumper. At least she has lips
and she knows how to use them.