By Rachel Ayers
Their ritual complete
headless chocolate bunnies lie
amidst the too-bright grass
eggs devoured by sticky mouths
singing Christ the Lord is Risen Today.
The mall speakers drown
the noise of shoppers and
squealing children, corralled by
mini-golf mats and short
white picket fences.
We hang electric chairs with lights,
bejewel lethal-injection needles,
paint the guillotine with hippie flowers
and wear our sparkling silver crosses.
Death has been defeated.
A tisket a tasket
why doesn’t my Easter basket
hold perfume and jewelry
and stuffed animals and candy.
Proof of love.
The earth below the jonquil
violet and crocus
is the rot of past years, turned from
flower to bud in the slowness of time:
here is rebirth, here is infinity.