Holiday Traffic


Driving home drunk with water
From snowglobes
To see a would-be father in your living room
Swords drawn, a prophet to your screams
While I tripped and fell on my own bayonet
Long dulled by your heart and lungs
To your photographs: my torture device
My crucifix in a shoebox
And I, a gilded cage
A sultan on your couch
Watching the cosmopolitan image
And your thirsty work
How close I was
Your uncooperative tongue
I've considered the lilies for far long enough
You schizophrenic Lilith atop my Christmas tree
And maybe one day, I'll sling off your reigns
And cast you on the earth like a curse