Kenny Williams
All she ever killed on purpose 
was a rabbit, 
already halfway dead 
and coming at her, 
bounding from a knot 
of guts and twigs.      
She smashed it 
with the shovel blade 
she'd use to scoop 
and bear the thing 
to the compost heap 
and bury it there 
by sense of guess 
(eyes turned away) 
and touch, its weight 
like nothing weighed 
against the shovel blade, 
the stinking earth 
turning with ease.  
Kenny Williams's poems have appeared most recently in Rattle, Lake Effect, FIELD, and Fence, and are forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Gulf Coast, the American Literary Review, and the Kenyon Review Online. He lives and works in Richmond, Virginia, and holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts.

more by Kenny Williams:
The Man Who Blamed Life on a Spaniel
The Minotaur