Spinning*
Michelle and I are playing tornado
in the backyard when Dad comes home early,
before Mom calls set the table,
and Dad pulls us into his lap.
We giggle because Dad has foxtails stuck
in his socks and a flower pinned under one ear
and Dad is an engineer.
None of this matters once he flips open
his vintage lunchbox,
and inside we don’t see this morning’s
turkey-avocado but a black rabbit
the size of two five-year-old hands.
It eyes four wagging ponytails
and four invading palms
as the tornados are forgotten.
Late afternoon light highlights only
what is still green and what is black,
we race around yelping because
we’ve got new overalls and a
brand new bunny to parade around like
we drew him ourselves,
wishing Teacher would pin him up on the
chalkboard so everyone would know
that he is ours, the world is green,
and still unshaken from our dizzy young orbit.