The Electric Hare

It hovers above a pedestal in the East Room
                 under a plexiglas cube. The electric hare, created
                                 by some Dutch artist back in Art Deco times. No one 

knows for sure. During my morning shift it glows green and gold. 
                 Powder blue on rainy days. Sometimes sequined. Feathered.
                                 Sometimes I can barely see it. The Electric Hare. The hare. 

On the wall behind, a nineteenth-century aristocrat 
                 wears rimless spectacles. When I pivot toward the break room, 
                                 he can still see me. The East Room comes last in my rounds, 

from gift shop through Impressionism, then featured exhibits, 
                 then decorative arts. I imagine the hare coming to life, springing 
                                 into my arms, riding home to live with me. It sings my name.

It cuts my heart like a window left open to the night. 
                 Then I turn and make the circuit again, counter-
                                 clockwise. (This work beats hammering roof shingles 

to new homes in the suburbs, a job I once held for two 
                 and a half days.) I warn children when they get too close
                                 to our six Impressionists, I chase down the trip

alarm around the porcelain vase. I direct dumb 
                 school busses into the circular drive. But mostly I walk 
                                  the circuit, counter and clockwise, and dream the Electric 

Hare. The hare and me at a stream, trembling. I stumble
                 around my kitchen and drink glass after glass of whisky. I hold 
                                  the empty tumblers to the light, imagine us within. 

Aaron Brame is the former senior poetry editor at the Pinch Journal. His poetry and prose appears in Lumina, Hartskill Review, Kindred, and Tupelo Quarterly, among other places. He lives and works in Memphis, Tennessee.

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