She’s one of those bunnies who spits
poison darts; hangs out with a nefarious gang
of platypussies. She speaks with interspersed
fricatives, hisses, and swirlicious hums.
Some say a frosting nozzle is nothing
like a pen, but she thinks that depends on the hue
and texture of the contents. How much pressure
she exerts. How long she waits for it to cool.
Her root cellar is filled with experimental cakes,
tiny yet ornate scripts, hybrids of tulip bulbs and red beets.
Bedazzled by an iron-on unicorn exhaling flames,
her pink hoodie is all the rage; covers the mundane fact
she doesn’t literally have virulent spurs built into her ankles.
Literality is overrated when a bunny has pizzazz;
when she has a vocab like spiked effervescence.
‘Everybody’s doing it,’ she mordantly says, replacing the segmented lead
with a flowing purple ink cartridge. She sparkles and surges.
She pops chocolate eggs with her curlicued heat.
She curses up a sugary hailstorm; cursives
violet venom like violent candy.
