Burnt pine needles in the steamy streets,
uniformed trash cans lined up with eggnog cartons
stained yellow with rainbows of lips
touching every cut and blister that brakes
into her rough skin and wrinkles into blue patterns
cutting wrapping paper and tying red velvet bows
piled underneath toy dolls and tiny car models
boxes from Aunt Gia torn and destroyed
linger the scent of rusty perfume
with flowers on bathroom walls and taunting porcelain
smiles that hide in corners and the hair of Fefe
curled up between my toes
warm apple pie sanitizing the air vents, and chocolate
chips fatting each breath and melody of
reindeer and red light bulbs.
Grandmas insinuations make uncomfortable
white lies but her pink elephants soon arrive
and dads aches worsen with cries,
ripping disks that are aged and words
curse His name at the splintered butcher hand
that bleeds and the ashy taste
vanishes when I awake, and there are no bells
just bananas that have blacken with
the sweet sense of routine.
