needles

Christmas songs are okay after Thanksgiving,

but not trees

we make fun of the people who've already got one

shining in the window

I mean, I could understand lights

even the strobe action at the house on 100th

my sister loves that display

(the one with the deer that move,

the giant plastic snow globe thing)

but she still tsks at the evergreen upstairs

it'll be dead in two weeks

my mom thinks it's sweet, so my dad stops muttering

about ridiculous and November

my sister restarts her campaign for a real one

before all-nighters were commonplace

(when I had to take naps all day

to prepare for New Year's Eve)

my sister and I hid under our comforter and waited

for the pitter-patter of hooves

on the roof (two apartments above our heads, but

we were listening hard)

but the presents Santa brought us came after we fell asleep

stacked high on our dining room table

not like the songs say, but we didn't care

(because presents)

Mom always set out a little fake tree in the middle

usually not even green

Dad, who grew up too poor for a Douglas or Fraser

loved the homemade ornaments

(the kind seven year olds make in school,

with their faces in the middle)

my mom, who grew up in a house

with a big fir every year

(bought two or three weeks before, tops)

made lots of fruitcake and stayed quiet

we drive by a vendor, probably a boy scout troop

$65! $100! Emma talks about how Christmas cheer

is priceless

ABCs

you were lonesome

but babies don't know that word

they know how to cry until their parents come

you lay in your crib and you wailed

chubby fingers reaching in the dark, expecting Mama

but Mama was plugged in, tuned out

fingers to temples because your noise pierced

and Daddy was already gone, Mama

didn't teach you the word for him,

though sometimes her crying did 

you plugged in, tuned out

because she told you something was missing

but not that he had a name

your father, the asshole, good-for-nothing

she told you, we don't need him

but left a hole gaping in your chest

something you pawed at when telemarketers

asked for the man in the house

or on the third Sunday of every June

your mother doesn't believe in "Hallmark holidays" anyway

sentimentality was never her strong suit,

nor was teaching you baseball or getting home

before midnight every night because she 

stayed late, worked hard to support you

she told you, but you could smell the whiskey

Mama was working hard to form 

her words and not paw at 

her own gasping chest

pathos

at the end of each day,

we sit across from each other

and practice telling the truth.

"fuck. ask me again."

"concentrate."

"I'm trying."

they taught you what you couldn't say

before fingerpaints, shoelace tying

my mouth formed pretty stories on its own

“why were you crying?”

“no reason.

“shit.”

you punch lockers when you’re frustrated

I sing to myself

tell people it’s the lullaby my mother sang

“where’s your mother?”

“she died when I was-”

“liar.”

you only know the truth

because a thief thinks everyone steals

as hard as I’ve worked to have no tells

“what does your father do for a living?”

“he. is a…”

“why are you hesitating?”

I intercept teacher’s notes,

you hide bruises,

we’ve got so many games

“are you okay?”

“are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m fine.”

we slink home

congratulate ourselves

the progress made