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
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