The Bunny and the Minister

The trance lingered for days,

a hangover, her ideas dim

around edges. The bunny ears

in the closet were farce, yet

their lace spread like fog,

latched to walls and ceiling,

a black veil the room wore.

A funereal stuffiness hung

in the air. They were

costume ears, a headband

easily snapped, tossed among

tank tops, yet the goofy thing

grew the way shadows stretch

beyond their origins; how

mysteries deepen the longer

unsolved—as in the case of the

minister who one day arrived

at his pulpit, a black veil attached

to his hat, his face covered. He

offered no reason for the caul

and lived his years thus styled.

Her hypnotist wanted more

bouncing, a hollow, bobbing

bimbo she wasn’t. Being a

mesmerist, he suggested the

black lace ears would ease

her shyness, could sculpt a slut

from a glacier. She held the head-

wear, wondered, having years

earlier read Hawthorne’s story,

what made the minister not enough

before the prop. Ears on, she shifted

states and wonder stopped, as she

hopped, cheeks flushed with lurid

lust, powerful proof of power lost.

Quinn White is a poet and educator. She is a graduate of Virginia Tech's MFA in poetry program. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Sixth Finch, Gargoyle Magazine, and Bayou Magazine.