In the sitting room, people are standing
which is how I know something is wrong
because nobody stands in a sitting room,
unless they’re scared of
intruding or changing or
spilling or saying something.
They tell me things and I nod and do that
sympathetic smile and I
look outside the window, where it’s
and snow is melting.
I wonder who will keep the cat –
who wants a cat intent on crashing
the Christmas tree down on Christmas Eve
leaving silver bulbs shattered,
snow globe water
glistening on the hardwood floor
and the poor angel, her halo knocked off,
with her wings bent beneath her back.
Today’s December 31st and
pines already yellow on the curb.
Her father says something about forgiving the body
for all that it can’t do
as if we’re talking the crook of an elbow;
as if it has something to do with the body.
In my house, we call this a living room
but I can tell these walls don’t breathe,
which maybe explains why she stopped speaking that month
deciding she’d rather break something
than sip holiday lattes in her local Starbucks
with other girls her age.
And one could say that it’s all his fault
but you aren’t supposed to say these things
but you can think them
and I do.
I want the swimming pool
I want the daughter
No, I don’t want
to hear your resolution
I want an angel with her head screwed on tight
want the duck and the clock and the red tambourine.
All I want is her button jar
its cool, sleek buttons
want to hold them in my fist,
maybe forgive her.