say a prayer
for my liver
and baby jesus

the house is filled with
the smell of cloves
and christmas lights

otis redding is singing
his clenched fist version
of white christmas

to a poet
the holidays
are as close as you come to death
all year

as we feel
joy, pain, absence
magic & loss
to the thousandth degree

enough to assault
a rude motherfucker doing wrong
with a quart of eggnog
in a supermarket at 7 pm

enough to almost die
while writing this poem