Sunday, 19 October 2008

Boxing Day

The paper, the absence, the necessary ornament:
No. Today, you in new Nike, white and Alaska,
Drive me to the trailers, your Marine friends-
Their holiday selves are weaker, unprepared,
Wrapped in two pairs of sweatpants.

At the ice rink, you promise to help me forget.
I’m cautious against the white cleanliness.
You push me forwards ‘til I’m flying, safety-swung,
Your thumbs pressed to my shoulder blades:
My skates skim and our cheeks form blushed rounds.

Your house, our cheeks not yet calm:
Your mother asks if we feel better now. Our brother
Is still dead. The boxer dogs wag their tails regardless.
Come evening, my house is like I never left:
The eight I live with lie atop made beds, as earlier.

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