by Yash Seyedbagheri
unsweetened cocoa
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.
What’s
next?
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