Christmas Eve

Before the snowfall bleeds,
        the fingers plucked from Superior’s finest valley.
        In December.

We hear that there are
        lighthouses and there are bells.
        We hear that there are

trains that hush children
        tucked in their flannel chinooks.
        We hear that there are

the bellies that sway and spew
        like the ships that’ll pass fortnight.
        Until it is quiet.

They will brew dust now.
        There is the lake
        that takes

and will never give back.
        In the shipyard.
        And there is she.

Slush builds up on
        grey roads that
        were spat on by God.

Don’t use them.
        When we see
        the red bows in her hair.

Brown like Mine.
        She stuffs her fists
        in flea-ridden fabric.

Borrowed and used.
        She pulls out
        peppermints and bonbons.

Let the wilderness swallow her whole.
        The pines bend
        their knees

in quiet persuasion.
        Outside, we hear the cuckoo cry.
        We hear the lake of her

swollen lungs echo its beckoning,
        its call to tender slumber.
        She dies on Christmas Eve.

It is quiet again.
        We left her presents in the attic.
        We see they are strangled

with twine and lapped
        with pine needles and swollen
        with effervescent love.

They are keenly watched
        by the windowsill that
        navigates the track of moons.

Moons without her.
As they, too, brew dust.