Vincent Trimboli
April 2019

Vincent Trimboli is a Queer Appalachian Artist and Poet that holds a MFA in Creative Writing from West Virginia Wesleyan College. In 2016, Trimboli published two chapbooks with Ghost City Press (Condominium Morte and other milkweed diners). His poems can be found in Connotation Press, Still Journal, The San Diego Reader, Cultural Weekly as well as multiple print and online anthologies. Vince has taught Writing, Literature, and Public Speaking in a Medium/Maximum Security Prison in the hills of West Virginia and has been Adjunct Professor of English at many Colleges and Universities throughout his home state. Currently Vince lives in Elkins, WV.



The woman hath made an oath, that two months ago, being working in a field with other women, they put up a rabbit


 — from the explanation given by Mary Toft


Dutiful in her labor


Five weeks gone and craving 

meats too rich for her purse


The field as gold as ever


She reached down to her stomach 

                                  then lower still


The swell above bone 


             then spotted  

             a hare 


The child growing inside

willed her legs to churn beneath her skirt 


Flint gray streak of lightning 

across the noon sun


They chased her for no reason


Not to eat

Not to drape

her fur across her shoulders 


Chasing the poor beast

until their bellies cramped

from running 


their lips dried 

from April’s air



Perhaps this was her idea of revenge for not being invited to her junior prom. Suitors her age longed for girls who had never woken up, pooled and ready to push. Her night shirts had long been stained with milk, and boys wanted crisp white V-necks, sleeves to roll their pack of cigarettes in, the other exposing their underarm as they reached up, punching the invisible face of their fathers.  Perhaps she had been tired of being unnoticed by them. Pitched on picnic benches, knees hugged up to her chin. Was this to escape a life? She had wanted to dance to a slow song. What she wanted was her body to be hers again. Then, maybe she would be hers again. Birthing rabbits is a strange ordeal. No one ever gives you corsages after. 

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