Christmas came early this year, And it came bearing gifts; Last year’s maladies on a silver platter, The pitter-patter of ashen ancestors, An unexpectedly large imposition. There is a heaviness in the way We leave our shoes by the door, Waiting patiently for reunion with our feet, As if every time we leave home we might return Again or left wondering what shoes we might be Buried in That would have been far too stiff For the living. The bread makes half our family sick So we butter our finger tips, Dipping into honey pots Flecked with cinnamon and myrrh Remembering old gods in the movie theater, New gods in the ozone layer, Grandma’s paperback romance novels She hid in the linen closet. Floors become ceilings. Windows become doors. Chimneys become every breath You never took as a child and Every baby never virgin-born, But born of harlots and whores blessed By the lord. Merrily, Our dreams will become an heirloom. Our nightmares will become a Yard Sale. Our last letter to the North Pole will recount Candy wrappers we found in the couch cushions Sunken and hollowed by forms fading Into regrettable circumstances or remarkable resolution. What joy.
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