Ēostre

Animals are innately

atheist—or so I’ve always

thought. Until you said the

Easter Bunny came,

the drop of chocolate eggs

amid the hops. I say

it must be pagan

more than Resurrection

herald. That there’s

no room for its luck

in hymn or prayer—

its severed,

dangling foot

glued to a chain.

The Catholics speak of

fish come every Friday,

their sacrificial scales,

while camels have been

caught between Epiphany’s

visitation, the Missives of

Allah.

You tell me of the

cows in deep Calcutta,

their soul of mother-

hood, there amid the Vedics

and the Jains.

But only the cats of

Cairo got it right. The bowed-to

not the bowed. They excel

at being still, kissed &

praised & pampered,

more so than

that spider in descent,

this would-be acrobat—

there within the flowers,

its viscous little weave,

vicious & vampiric,

yet clinging to the

loved among the leaves,

its octagon of legs

that fuse unused,

like boats moored at a

dock before the catch,

with nothing to do

but sit like a Buddhist

monk, ponder if the

blood is really worth

its weight in breath,

this sticky, staid

existence,

if it's the one

who’s captive

in its web.

Andreas Gripp

April 20, 2025

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