Colored eggs lay nestled
under the trees outside my window.
Sleep lingered on my tongue
as a haze of muted voices
filled the air—like my blanket,
so soft; growing heavy.
My mother’s wet eyes pierced
the mist in my mind.
The sleep soured on my tongue
as the bundle in her arms
commanded my gaze.
She offered it—
heap of stillness
and soft, dead fur—
like a present.
His hoof hung
from the blue towel
and reached for me.
My sob crunched
through the black quiet,
my throat thick with regret.
The stolen items:
an Easter morning, sleep,
and him.
Editor
Kiara StrijackKiara Strijack is a fifth-year creative writing and psychology student. She has been published in Portal and The Nav and has received the Meadowlark Award for fiction and the Pat Bevan Award for poetry. You can find her hanging out with her pet rats.
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