Chocolate Bunny
Headless, frozen on the copper tray’s gleam
between leaps, no anatomist is needed to lay bare
your innards, empty-pottery smooth, a hare
in outline only, your two halves joined by a seam.
“Hallo!” I shouted into your nut-brown interior,
having broken off and consumed your ears first,
a tradition. The rest of the head came next, the worst
of the delicious desecration, leaving this inferior
vessel of cocoa-scented air and slippery slopes
to be finished off, slowly diminishing on a pedestal
of two forlorn feet I will then nibble and eat,
until nothing is left. And though I didn’t kill,
guilt rappels your eroding torso, copes
with a darkness more jagged than sweet.
K.E. Duffin’s work has appeared in Agni, The Carolina Quarterly, Crannóg, Kestrel, The Main Street Rag, The Moth, Poetry Salzburg Review, Raintown Review, Scintilla, Slant, Southern Poetry Review, Thrush, and other journals. King Vulture, a book of poems, was published by the University of Arkansas Press.