A lover left me a bag
of spinach leaves
before her flight
to those who mean more
on holidays or any.
Poking through them
tonight, plucking out
what's started to rot;
salvaging what's able
to be saved and sautéed
I wonder if the gods
do this with men
and which one
I would be
in this playroom
of clumsy dreamers.
We bellyache vaguely
of the holiday blues.
I'll lay mine out
for you:
There was a brief time
in my life
when I was
almost the hero.
Estranged parents
a wayward replacement
and my brother
they didn't make
met under the same roof
to sit at a long table
with name cards
placed strategically
snowmen and elves
drawn on company time.
Twice a year
this healing was held
after decades of separation
brought together
by what we all thought
would last.
We were wrong
but we have those
memories, silent
and loud
like gunshots
unaware of whether
to be grateful or lost
in the wake
of what almost was.
I would have worn
a better shirt
had I known.
You begged me
to win your tits
in a cancer
awareness
charity auction
in which
a bust of your breasts
was entered
painted to draw
a fan of the valley.
You said how unsettled
you were the last time
when a stranger took home
that replica of your chest.
You claimed it meant nothing
when he finished inside
last week, that Plan B
would prevent
any glitch.
You dodged two words
for far too long
so now you can't live
rent-free in my head.
How'll I sleep
without your mane
in my face?
My brothers in Christ
we're on a roll tonight.
Cracking wise
at old holes
glamorized
could've given you
a kid
could've peaked
at black beans;
pet peeves
on a Tuesday.
Deep in our grief
of mourning for ourselves
like my grandmother's
sewing machine;
help me knock off
the rust tonight.
