Christmas Was…

... the icy-mint breath you always gave me;
the sermon's dimmed light cowed
to the Christmas star; a sleeved head ascending
the pulpit, as I found sleep in the hollow of your armpit.

It was copper gilding on white coconut flakes -
my burning knuckles, mistaken for raw lumps,
passed too close to a grater's perforations.
I winced and flashed the sting away. I learned

to cook as Beckno told stories of hatpins
his mother used to prod him. Hungry, he spun
the kitchen-bitch till its blunt point landed, then ate
the winnings: veined kidney pegs of tangerine.

These were the things that made a season bright.

Once, in the dark I sat up and stared at the sky,
a whale, captured in a pane of glass, my eyes running
over silver scales. I swore I saw a host
of reindeer pulling you away. Now, outside,

the red kettle has the allure of a browning.
She rings the bell for young men to turn
out their pockets and force the odd bill through
a narrow slit that favours her parted lips.

The good plates and silver do not match;
the domino table is a dusty computer stand;
we make a meal out of few ingredients -
charity and hope - and sleep from feastfulness.

Millicent A.A. Graham