Samuel Arizpe

In Issue 7 on July 19, 2011 at 12:54 pm

Back to Where

Having crawled out of his yard into mine through a hole in the fence, the rabbit was nibbling the grass and looking up when my dog broke his neck with one clean bite. The high-pitched squeal he emitted as he was dying was so oddly similar to an infant’s cry that I felt compelled to let it die In my hands so as to comfort it, but the comfort was mine and I went to bury it under the citrus tree, remembering the practice of Tibetan celestial burial, the cutting of the dead into pieces so that in nature life can come from death. I want to imagine the rabbit’s death giving life to the rain falling now, so that we will have water for the harvest and the drought, so that the Book of Life can spring open with a list of delicate bodies from far-off lands, of soldiers smiling and waving because they quit the war, and of us in a river at night, swimming back to where we were—the wind, the stars, into the silence of the trees.


Samuel Arizpe is at present finishing up his work toward an M.F.A. in creative writing with a focus on poetry, at University of Texas-Pan American. He lives in the southmost part of Texas, “The Valley,” which borders Mexico.

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