Love is something of a jackalope

It lives in a wood-lined burrow,
collecting gum wrappers
and aluminum foil.
It hangs its trophies on the walls,
makes sculptures of the tin.
Rabbit body, stag antler,
tiny, careful hands;
an amalgamation of nature,
a thing which should not be.
Yet, I see it there before me,
gathering glass shards
and fishing line, crafting
chandeliers to illuminate forest
homes, refracting light
for jackalope families to see by.
On birthdays, its search expands.
Perfect bits of cloth,
discarded sewing needles, buttons,
the bows from Communion shoes,
and it labors into the night.
Many-faced inventor,
seasoned animancer,
come morning it bears a gift.
Presents it to the wife,
the husband, the child.
And I’ve watched this happen
from the periphery of it all,
a ghost in the eaves
of a life which can never be mine.
I, too, am a creature
which should un-be.
Am the hand and eye which are not.
Nothing will ever be
quite so perfect.