When we were children and Lydia
would come over in the morning,
she would cry and not want to talk
about her father’s hands on her.
I simply turned on the television
to channel 11 and we watched
as Bugs Bunny eventually struck a match,
giving Elmer Fudd the hotfoot.
He danced around in circles, yelling
Oh, oh, oh—the sole of his boot bubbling
like pancake batter on a hot stove
as he geared up to chase you silly wabbit
consonants melding, the threads
of his boot melting & snapping him back
like a rubber band. Elmer would vibrate
back and forth in blinding speed.
Only then would I laugh and look over
at Lydia curled up like a small kitten.
She would be staring at Elmer
trying to run,
the threads of his sole stretched
into insane thin strips,
his cartoon mouth agape, opening so wide,
it seemed to swallow him whole.
