Olivia Sio Tse

Share nothing besides sympathy
for rabbits, his Americana not

my own. I am the other kind of
custard. Still, he lays a tender

track of Ford, how we assemble
it ourselves, and I think in other

lives, we root for the sour stem
together. Weaken our bonds to

godly values, spread malaise like
a layer of fat. I connect to his car

and relationship to Christmas, the
way his water trembles upward

occasionally, like happiness. At
the end of a rabbit, the century

turns, and a boy suddenly learns
he has a sister. Acrylic kin, he

promises to walk her down the
aisle. The only thing they have

in common has long gone, which
doesn’t really matter. Their hands
still shake.