Tangled in a fury
of thread, loose
zippers, untied knots
the epitome of all
that went wrong
with Christmas.
Her work boots planted
firmly before the
glorified dirt mound
that bore his name.
The poinsettias,
oh the poinsettias
crimson seductress
of christ's birth
marking his
breathless corpse.
She is on her knees now
with the red devils
thumping his chest
attempting to resuscitate
the lifeless giant
who's heart was
squeezed dry by
red thread and
stabbed dead
by rusty needle
that protrudes from
this heavy chest of man,
blessed by the martyr's tears.
A scene endlessly repeating
resigned to the land
that birthed her,
that brought her
to her knees
to be forever at daddy's feet
writhing in jealousy
cursing the ladies in red
that seductively line
his resting place.
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