The Easter Bunny has never been big in
my family’s mythology, and thank God—
I’ve seen the grainy photographs of
terrifying mid-century mascot monsters.

But one year, when they were still married,
Mom bought Dad a realistic hand-puppet rabbit,
animated from the crook of your arm
to pretty convincing effect.

And Dad made the bunny an asshole.
Dad, the model of manners and
enforcer of decorum every other day
of the year, channeled all the sass

and sarcasm filed away within him
through his forearm and into this twitching
plush leporid. It made us giggle and scream
with glee to be insulted by the puppet as

we searched for our baskets and eggs.
The adorable dean of spring calling us
pea-brains, and Dad, who was, frankly,
a terrible ventriloquist, laughing and
coming to life.  

Originally published in Solum Journal Volume V.
Honorable Mention for the Peter Pan Prize in The Poetry Society of South Carolina 2023 Spring Forum contests.