I crochet scarves and blankets
with the feathery-flesh of my
white hands. Christmas presents
hand made, and wrapped around
the stretchy-statuesque covers
of second hand books. Coffee table
pictures; and children's drawings.
Christmas lights burn my eyes; they
arch my contacts when I drive in the
dark. And I am the baby of my mother's
womb. Silly and sassy, I go to see "indie"
independent films by myself in sweaters
and tennis shoes- my plainness is like stiletto
beauty against the callused coarse of a man's hands.
In that white house I slept under blankets that I
sowed myself. Beneath me, boxes of words. I frame
them on red walls and recite them instead of
making up silly cliche's for toasts; because I always
loved to speak in front of crowds.
My diary entree's are under lock and key but I
search antique stores downtown for Wedgwood
blue plates to give to my mother, who collects them
like dust on the table tops. My car slices across
ice. Crystallized. Snow flake. Little girls giggling under
the blankets beneath the candle. Fuzzy frost fills
the windows. And I never could sleep on Christmas
Eve, sitting with my feet under the hem of my
nightgown waiting at the window for my beliefs
to be proved true and not lies. I waited, watching,
withering each year after the next.
I have a memory of four boys standing out in the
fog when it was twenty-eight degree's outside.
Stalled cars for the ice on the road kept us still
and quiet and left me alone in the car while they
(so old on the outside) acted liked kids in the
amber neon of the streetlight throwing snow
balls at each other.
I have a wish, to respect the world, for I
know, even in my youth that it is greater
then myself. I slip coins and left over dollar
bills into red swinging bowls for the Salvation
Army. I remember what it was like to feel hunger
when I sat in the dark of those rooms, alone,
and running free. Freedom sickens my belly
and I give my cans away to feed others. I give
books for Christmas (second hand, but I know
how to look for the ones that could be new
as long as no one knows where they come from.)
I stay up late to hug my mother before the morning
comes. I ignore my thirst for life and go home and
make believe that my father isn't who he is. That
he didn't ever promise to disown me. Never speak
my name again. Never look into my face (even though people
say that I look just like him.) We pretend over wine glasses
and home cooked delicacies.
I open presents with the feathery-flesh of my white hands,
and smile. This is not my home but I can always