December is a poltergeist,

noisy with carols and nor’easters. My family
is a wolf pack, and we celebrate Christmas

stalking something timid and gamey: a good
night’s sleep or lost souvenir spoon

from a trip to Montréal. 
Lo, the churchyard bears the symbol

of a virgin birth: a nativity whose sheep
keep turning up on the ridge, throats

slit. I light a candle in the cathedral, try to find a place 
where the urge to scream is less consuming.

It’s a nuisance-haunting, and I try to hide it.
Hunt for a spirit-box or carol—hallelujah!—

with something to tell me other than 
childless one, shivering blood-thing on the snow, 

your mama is dead and your house is so cold.

The Last Ice Age

I have a habit of withdrawing
into the Pleistocene epoch

I empty all my language into the fire
and my skull grows large with silence

My blood is red as blood

At night I fall into the sky

I take a dog to bed
and sleep until we both need meat

The stars tell me nothing
I do not need to know

Everyone I’ve ever loved has been keen with hunger

Everyone I’ve lost has been buried
with their bone beads
and there is no need to visit their graves

I am on the wide plain with the running horses

My body is a simple instrument for the wind to play