I see her hanging the tinsel
on the tree he did not want to have
and I am 8, sitting with the dogs
watching my mother, for whom
Christmas, in Germany
where we were from
was a many-day season of light
food and wine, friends and laughing
so even in Texas, our new home of 3 years
and in the house of the monster
she was celebrating with silver light
and he broke her ribs for it.
This terrible season of forced joy
is a marathon I run in my adult shoes
head up and eyes forward
despite the tinsel every-choking-where
without the light, any light
just waiting it out
with my 8-year-old heart
my motherʻs ribs long mended
but the scar flaming bright
as a burning tree.
