Judging by the voice, the speaker is giving orders to themselves, and the orders are a way of swallowing fear. "Don't worry about it. Tell no one." "Nothing's wrong. It's fine." The repeated denials sound like someone who is clearly not fine, rehearsing a calm face for anyone who asks. The title fits: the poem seems to describe a ritual of silence, where the thing everyone worships is pretending nothing is happening.
The middle section brings in the pack and the rabbit. Belonging offers safety, but the speaker admits they are not a predator, they are the prey, and "you know it." That recognition drives the poem toward its bleak ending. The advice shifts from "keep calm" to hiding in a hole, then to drowning and blowing up the heart, before the final flat line: "It's too late." The mood is tight and anxious, with forced composure cracking into despair. The short, clipped sentences make it feel like a person holding their breath.