Christmas Eve

God lures us into this season
with the aroma of hope
ripe among the stench of manger dung

and i want it to be about hope
but i am cracking at the seams

too numbed by the wind
at the foot of this cemetery hill
i barely notice my insides have slipped out
until i see them over her grave

it is getting colder and colder
and darker and darker
and it is time to go

so i gather my guts back up
and start trudging away from her
(that is always the hardest part)

and i halfheartedly decide that for tonight
i will invite hope to hang the stockings with me

and i will tell rage and doubt
that we can speak again in the morning

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