For today's prompt, I want you write a poem about a memory. The memory can be good or bad. The memory can be a blend of several memories. I suppose it could even be a memory that you're not sure you remember correctly. Take your time finding a good one (or good ones).
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The only detail in the truth I changed in this poem is that I'm pretty sure it wasn't Good Friday when I found this rabbit as a child, but it was in the spring. We were pretty young, 8 or 9, and did our best to deal with what we thought was the worst situation in the world.
Finding a Dead Rabbit on Good Friday
Because we believed
the Lord had created
the Easter Bunny, now dead,
in the street, we found a box
to place it in, white
fur, hard from the blood, face
peaceful, a sleeping
rabbit we'd said, if it wasn't
for the gash in its side,
the broken legs.
We buried it
next to the freeway,
made a cross of rocks in the earth
above it, to mark
its place, one spotted
shell we had found
set in the center.
Later, when we returned
to bring flowers to the grave,
the shell was moved
from center to side. Not me,
we said as we accused the other,
then decided to believe, like Jesus,
the Easter Bunny had risen,
the stone pushed from the tomb,
now a shell, another God
had died and kept the tradition.
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