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
