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Megan Mealor Poem
Another Easter spent
feasting on Jelly Bean Martinis,
sculpting butter lambs
with Nana’s mastiff Escort
snoring by tabletop fire.
Aunt Bea smoked lemongrass,
shading wooden eggs
with Dappled Willow shrubs.
A whimsical Slovakian cousin
suggested we whip each other with willow rods,
sprinkle ice-choked water on the women,
then blacked out on the buffalo grass
after sneaking three Peeptinis,
two Blushing Scots, a pitcher of
Nana’s Tea Party Two-Punch.
Aunt Harley arrived in a felt foxglove bonnet
laced with tender golden ribbons,
not for a moment distracting from
those swollen, swindled lips.
Papa Bear worked the washy den
in a plush paisley bowtie
decoding poached pagan relics
every fairy tale tradition
from Pancake Tuesdays
to Passion Plays,
straw doll Judas bonfires
to pitching pottery
off olive wood balconettes.
Cousin Kaylee supplied the wildwood rabbit salad,
hot-cross buns spangled with sunny raisins,
blossom bread drawn into dandelions.
Uncle Rio dispensed the Roasted Cacao bunnies
and flattened pennies from a Gator World pit stop,
raving on about the Timberwolves, the Raptors, the Jazz.
The triplets tore into jute-twined baskets
stuffed with chiffon peony barrettes,
Minnie Mouse compacts and combs,
microscopic, backstitched Bibles
beforehand highlighted, honed.
Copyright © Megan Mealor | Year Posted 2022
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