I stepped into the lamp-flooded night to watch my dad smoke
and stood in the driveway, in the long middle of his shadow.
It was spring. A smaller shadow hopped. I ran after it,
laughing, a bunny, a bunny! I ran back to my dad
and asked him to help me catch it. He went
inside and came back out with a cardboard box,
oily from bobbins, throat plates, and stop latches.
Together, we ran down our street, chasing a
shadow, lit by living room lights. I looked inside the box and the
bunny looked at me. What should we name her?
伊是兔. It doesn’t need a name. I named her Bunny
Rabbit, thinking I was clever like my dad, who once
he named me 美華, true, familiar, and foreign to him. At
home, the lights were off. And in bed, I heard the night
bite into a cigarette at the stove. I heard Bunny Rabbit
scratch the cardboard as if to dig down—I turned to my side
and hoped for a different name. Six months later, she
died, but I didn’t know why or how except that its teeth
grew so long, it looked like a baby brown
walrus sleeping on its side. When I told my dad
had died, he shrugged and stamped out his
cigarette by my mom’s rose bushes.