the singing knives

Mary Toft, April 1726

For months, I dreamed about rabbits, in my lap, in my hands, I fell in the field eye-level with their soft ears, rough teeth gnawing at me, all night, all morning. They followed me until I turned to chase them, too quick for woman hands, a wide berth

around my wide body. I had failed to birth my little girl, her slickness slim as a rabbit, slipped out still, left me to chase saints in the Bible, alone, alone in a field of heartache. The midwife left me mourning so I unsteepled my hands from prayer, clenched my teeth.

I wanted a wonder, hard as gold between my teeth. If I couldn’t bear a baby, then I’d birth a miracle. Pink dawn split of morning, my pink dawn open to rabbits. Dry womb, a burrow. Thighs, a field, a pale moon hung low, chasing

strings of clouds. I sent a girl, dog chasing her ankles, to the doctor. He sent for the queen. Teeth grinding, I pushed and pushed, fielded their inquiries, my body a spectacle of birth, miracle of monstrosity, more and more rabbit. Cringing in constant labor left no time for morning

sickness or conception, just wailing, morning til night, my ghost girl giving chase to the slick river, body after body, rabbit  after rabbit, pointed ears and sharp teeth, I almost missed death’s ferry berthed just outside the window, just before the field

no longer a swaying field. I begged for coins in my eyes, mourners to don their black veils, bury the afterbirth once my body stopped chasing breath, ceased chattering teeth but my heart would only beat, wild rabbit

thing. Pelts, eyes, teeth. Bed a mess of afterbirth, I float to the field each morning, chase the one baby  I wished for. Curse this curse of birth.