firewood

She crept through doggy doors

& swallowed tomatoes whole.

I think she probably smelled like sticky buns & extension cords.

But all my mom would say was Christmas.

It smelled like Christmas.

But I don’t think Baby Jesus can feel his way through the birth canal when the North Star has burned out & the dryer no longer tumbles.

Her daughter’s feet ache too much to find the bottom step or even the top.

My mother can’t open closet doors & she can’t swallow darkness like she used to

& I feel guilty watching butter melt & opening my mouth too often when all that will spill from it is soured snow & scorpion kisses.

None of us can whistle on-key or remember the hymns or that we’re supposed to say “& with your spirit” now.

The edifices once familiar now desaturated, foreign, weeping.

& I was happy that the butter had melted in her hands when she rose.

I’m sorry I dream of cauldrons and shoe boxes.

I’m sorry I ever told.

I hate the fireplace eyes that crackle & beg & that I have firewood to toss back.

I just wish she’d thrown another log on before it all went black.