April 12, 1998

My little sister stepped into a nest of infant rabbits,
Easter Sunday, the year she turned three.
There was a Holy Uproar from the side yard:

bunnies squeaking, my sister squeaking;
harmony of mutual terror.
I remember wolfing vanilla ice cream

and lamb-shaped cake, marveling
at the stupidity of a mother rabbit
who birthed her young in our tiered lawn

feet from the sudden drop to
the dog’s pen. I was too young to know
my mother was crying in the kitchen

elbows deep in dish suds while my father
listened to Celtic hymns, bagpipe and fife.
I remember waking the next morning,

still slightly ill from too much candy,
to find three silky pilgrims, tiny-eared
and broken, little lemmings

too blindingly young to know
they had reached the edge of a cliff.

The End

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