by Yash Seyedbagheri
I hop around, an Easter Bunny, a huge rip in my tail.
Kids ask who hurt me. I want to talk of a father’s drunken hands, ripping joy. Fuck Easter. Help your worthless dad. Once he told jokes about sex and lightbulbs, taught piano, hands so long and patient, elegant in gestures.
Then he got fired. Budget cuts. They offered no odes to his music. No tributes to his eyebrows dancing as he talked of Romanticism, his childlike smile.
I deliver candy, absorb joy. Smashed pianos and hands flit about my consciousness.
I toss cheer until it leaves.