Photo by Julian Hochgesang

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.


Kiara 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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