I pull the gold foil down
and proceed to bite the ears off
in one giant chomp.
Now you can't tell
what kind of animal it is.
I feel less guilty about it that way.
The rich chocolate
melts on my tongue.
Dark chocolate. My favorite.
My mom knows me well.
Will anyone know me the same way
ever again? I wrap the wounded head
in the remnants of the foil
and place this year's Easter bunny
on my bookshelf, its caved-in hollow head
safely out of sight.
I'm 26 now.
How many more years will I get them?
As many as she's alive.
A good mother, arguably.
A penitent son at best.
I won't find out until it's my turn
to do the bunny-buying
but I hope that I've inherited
more than her lazy left eye.
One parent had to do the work of two.
She succeeded. Even on my darkest days
I can't deny her that.
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