Rabbit Days moves through the rooms of a girlhood the way memory does, not in order, but in textures. Chocolate bunnies melting on Palm Sunday. Crawdads cooked in old cans over a fire. A girl at the bus stop who imagines she is made of clay, drying slowly in the sun.
These sixteen poems live in the suburban and Appalachian spaces where children learn to be small and holy and animal all at once. Kneeling on carpet fibers, breathing fog onto windows, listening for trains they've been running from their whole lives. The body knows what the mind calls pseudomemory. The daughter watches herself from a distance and isn't sure what she sees.
Rabbit Days is a quiet, unsettling book about the strangeness of having been a child, and what gets left in the pavement when you go.
