the easter bunny

once when you were a child,
maybe ten or eleven
years of age, you were
at an easter picnic
with other children
and families. you were
in a park, with trees,
and a wide dark river
nearby. the sky was blue
as skies can be
at the time of year.
it was a pleasant day.
neither cold or hot.
out of nowhere a car
load of young men swung
their car around
the circle and yelled
out to us. The easter bunny
is queer, one man said,
sitting on the edge
of the window. he was
pale with slicked
black hair. a cigarette
was tight in his lips
and you could see a beer
can in his hand.
they circled several times
honking their horn
until several of the fathers
together marched towards
them, rolling up
their sleeves. the young
men drove off, laughing
hysterically. hooligans
your mother said, hands
on her hips, shaking her
starched stiff hair. there was
to be an easter egg
hunt at some point.
a game of tag perhaps,
cake and ice cream.
baskets of candy in
colored celluloid paper.
but you remember most
that day,
hearing those words,
they've never left you.
the easter bunny is queer.
perhaps it wasn't about
sex at all, maybe the young
man meant
that the bunny was odd,
or different. quirky
in some way perhaps.
you knew he didn't
even exist anyway, so why
be bothered, you tried
to reason it all out
with your ten year old
logic. in fact. why did he
exist at all, representing
the resurrection of
the savior of the world
from a horrible death.
how did a rabbit sneaking
into houses leaving candy,
and colored eggs, jelly
beans somehow become part
of this event. and now,
he might be queer,
whatever that meant.
your head rushed with ideas,
confusion, a maelstrom
of insecurity made you
squint your eyes and caused
you to lose interest in
searching through the thick
green grass and in the hollows
of leafless trees,
for hidden eggs.