Pampers, Lorraine Pilcher
Painting the Bunny

Whoever first painted the bunny
Couldn’t have imagined what a gorgeous burrow
They were entering,
With what tactile frenzy--
At what extreme depths
They would bury
Your soft, mollusk heart
Like a hand in its muff.

At first the brush tried to paint you
Sleek, if not prehensile
As a cat, sober as a dog.
But the hands felt way too good--
They just couldn’t stop caressing
Your soft cheek, your plump haunch:
Petting, painting…

Finally it was revealed
That what the hands were seeking
Was their own indulgence.
What they were making
Was history’s first perfectly innocent,
Perfectly imperious and impotent little
Household god.

Well, O.K...
There are a couple of things
For which we must apologize.
After getting to the fem-extremity of soft,
How could we, how could we
Balance our art
On the phall-atrocity of those ears?

No wonder you are sometimes ill-tempered,
Skittish, that you live
To be pampered, oh little Cleopatra of rabbits
Sometimes, there is no insult
Like love. 

Sandy Baksys