The Passion Of The Mad Rabbit - Anne Sexton

While the carrots sang arias into the holy earth
and the snowmen turned into bronze weathervanes,
I underwent a removal, tearing my skin off me,
plucking out the eyes like Ping-Pong balls,
squashing the shriek of my heart like a phone off the hook —
and as these phenomena occurred, a fool walked straight into
        me.
He was named Mr. Rabbit. My own voice spoke to people,
anyone, friends, strangers on the street, saying,
"I am Mr. Rabbit."  The flesh itself had become mad
and at three mirrors this was confirmed.

Next it was bad Friday and they nailed me up
like a scarecrow and many gathered eating popcorn, carrying
hymnals or balloons. They were three of us there,
though they appeared normal. My ears, so pink like powder,
were nailed. My paws, sweet as baby mittens, were nailed.
And my two fuzzy ankles.  I said, "Pay no attention. I am
       crazy."
But some giggled and some knelt. My oxygen became tiny
and blood rang over and over in my head like a bell.
The others died, the luck of it blurting through them.
I could not. I was a silly broken umbrella
and oblivion would not kiss me.  For three days it
was thus.

Then they took me down and had a conference.
It is Easter, they said, and you are the Easter Bunny.

Then they built a great pyre of kindling and laid me on top
and just before the match they handed me a pink basket
of eggs the color of the circus.
Fire lit, I tossed the eggs to them, Hallelujah I sang
       to the eggs,
singing as I burned to nothing in the tremor of the flames.
My blood to a boil as I looked down the throat of
       madness,
but singing yellow egg, blue egg, pink egg, red egg, green
       egg,
Hallelujah, to each hard-boiled-colored egg.

In the place of the Lord,
I whispered,
a fool has risen.



[From:
Sexton, A. (1977) 45 Mercy Street. London: Secker & Warburg. p90 - p91]

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