photo: ralph murre
December,
Wisconsin
by
Cathryn Cofell
(1)
The
village turned the landfill last
week,
but we barely notice the stench.
The
air feels bicycle and basketball,
the
last chunks of leaves
still
clinging like ex-lovers.
Bare
feet against the porch window,
we
sip Greek wine, listen
with
wicked grins to our sweaters
pound
against the locked
cedar
chest in the hall.
(2)
In
the chapel, a girls’ choir so clear
the
ceiling tiles weep. One possum girl
on
the end, all pigtails and glasses,
faints
a little. She is so out
of
place she could be ours
if
we had one. Midnight,
the
cats fight over the manger
and
Mary is lost. We pick up pieces,
check
for cuts in dark places.
(3)
Donation
boxes cringe half empty;
can
you hear their bellies rumble?
The
mall overflows and the streets
overflow
and the hospitals overflow,
but
tomorrow the phone could ring,
a
sister or cousin with news.
Gifts
wrapped in silver and cinnamon,
cookies
bundled in cellophane,
possibility
like the touch of a small hand,
certain
to take hold before snow.
~
first published in the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar
