POEM: Glimpsing Meghalaya Easter

Girls in their Sunday-go-to-meetin’,

plod along muddy roads–

colorful yet spatter-fearing–

trudging to Easter service

meticulously, yet carefree.

Some wedge their way into Tata Sumos

 to jounce their way to mass.

Master wicker craftsmen

made their Easter baskets.

My Hoosier childhood Easters

featured injection-molded plastic baskets

–pretend woven–

but pressed from a blob of pastel plastic.

Even our grass was plastic–fake grass.

[Same as Christmas tinsel but for color.]

I bet they have real grass, too.

We had access to real grass

but no one wanted it

to touch their jelly bean.

I find so much reality to be alien and off-putting.

And I never learned

whether Meghalayans eat their

 bunnies feet- or ears- first. 

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