Christmas The day I ate a bauble. Sheen like shells, it was glassy and long, plucked from the tree, its silver strobed, as light as my arm. A bite, and the frail mollusk was undone. The glimmering splinters
were scales glinting in the soft red gum and tongue. The sleepy room roused in dozy panic to the boy crying through broken glass, the mouth a slush of opened blood. The jags were picked out, like nits. Christmas, with bleeding. And the ghost in the spare room, rousing the cat to kill its kittens. An empty chair at the table, and stardust glitter in the teeth.