06-25-2016, 11:57 AM
We'd listen to the Muppets sing
the Twelve Days of Christmas, unwrapping
winter with the glimmer of children.
First out of the box, heralding the arrival
of memory stored away in the granary
for eleven-twelfths of the year, a corn-husk
metatron, laid to the side for loftiest placement.
Then two cloth guardian angels
for my brother and I, indestructible
and crafted to endure a lifetime;
three strands of lights, two clear and solid,
colored ones blazed like brazen neon.
Four strands of popcorn—texture of rubber,
no salt, no butter—seduced the Labrador;
along with the venison fresh from November,
it was his reason to enjoy the season.
Nobody owns five golden rings quite like Miss Piggy.
Next came a six-piece— broken and glued—
ceramic nativity mailed from Florida
by imagined grandparents
and seven flimsy paper chains—copies
of the church bulletin – dated and sliced.
An eight-piece set of bears in red wagons
modeled scenes of classic Americana.
Nine tins of ornament hooks, wire and sharp
could probably kill a man. Mom would breathe shallow
for ten minutes while we reverently revealed
the glass and sentimental,
searching for places to hold their weight,
careful not to let them shatter.
Eleven Sunday school projects
proved childhood's existence
with spray-painted construction paper
and Popsicle sticks, enveloped in endless glitter.
Dad would enter the scene around twelve,
chiming in with his baritone voice:
turn that fucking shit off.
Small changes in response to feedback 6/26 and title change. Original title was "O Christmas Tree."
the Twelve Days of Christmas, unwrapping
winter with the glimmer of children.
First out of the box, heralding the arrival
of memory stored away in the granary
for eleven-twelfths of the year, a corn-husk
metatron, laid to the side for loftiest placement.
Then two cloth guardian angels
for my brother and I, indestructible
and crafted to endure a lifetime;
three strands of lights, two clear and solid,
colored ones blazed like brazen neon.
Four strands of popcorn—texture of rubber,
no salt, no butter—seduced the Labrador;
along with the venison fresh from November,
it was his reason to enjoy the season.
Nobody owns five golden rings quite like Miss Piggy.
Next came a six-piece— broken and glued—
ceramic nativity mailed from Florida
by imagined grandparents
and seven flimsy paper chains—copies
of the church bulletin – dated and sliced.
An eight-piece set of bears in red wagons
modeled scenes of classic Americana.
Nine tins of ornament hooks, wire and sharp
could probably kill a man. Mom would breathe shallow
for ten minutes while we reverently revealed
the glass and sentimental,
searching for places to hold their weight,
careful not to let them shatter.
Eleven Sunday school projects
proved childhood's existence
with spray-painted construction paper
and Popsicle sticks, enveloped in endless glitter.
Dad would enter the scene around twelve,
chiming in with his baritone voice:
turn that fucking shit off.
Small changes in response to feedback 6/26 and title change. Original title was "O Christmas Tree."