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.