A weekly poem, read by the author.
March 18 1999 3:30 AM


To hear Rita Dove read "Sunday," click here.


Their father was a hunting man.

Each spring the Easter rabbit sprung open

above the bathroom sink, drip slowed

by the split pink pods of its ears

to an intravenous trickle.

There was the occasional deer,

though he had no particular taste

for venison--too stringy, he said,

but made mother smoke it up just in case,

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