Holiday

Another year hangs the ornaments too early.
Itching to celebrate, we thought poison oak

would make a nice stocking stuffer, so wrong
we were. The tree looks reasonably happy.

Though we punched holes in the calendar, thinking
butterflies would fly from the void and melt

into our mouths like friendly kisses, our tongues
make no sound but the jilted click of undercut

prosperity. We waded through a narrow river
to cut down decades of growth, reaching

past sleet mesh to splinter some handles.
We should have never left the house. Stirring

steamy beverage, soaking in bath-salt tinsel,
sending supply package after supply package

to violent epicenter of trouble. I turn red
from scratchy fabric, a renegade elf refusing

new identification. Sleeping on sandpaper
to whittle my shoulder-blades into box-cutters.

The snow melts into rain over masquerade,
a smoky, festive scent. The bridge of my nose

shatters under weight of such deep drags.
Giving thanks to banks for their surplus trimmed,

pupils dilate to ease passage through the mountain.
At the top of the tree: a golden tarp tucks itself.

Tough call, which way to believe. When to pop zits
or when to desiccate an out-of-place poplar.

This flavor of fame tastes like a locked room.
Mount antlers too quickly, hear strings

tremble through walls as a wail escapes
from the stag my language grazed.

One drop of maroon floods the fir.
It's dark, darker each ride through slush,

thinking of the prism that redirected us
when we hardly held each other's names.

Filling my crown with sanguine metal,
scrambling circuits of joy-machine,

feel asbestos wheezing. Stick with me
if silence is your fire-place. Poke the ashes,

expect some deity to emerge, fall
asleep waiting for ambulance to arrive.