Sonnet: Christmas with Dark Meat
by John Kendall Hawkins
I've always found Christmas a winterland of right
goodness, with flakes to die for, silver screens falling,
lit with our collective introjections piled high
in a blizzard that sweeps down from a darkling sky;
or else ashes, pages of history calling
for our attention, set ablaze by madmen (white)
at war with memory; and Christmas brings old smiles
back, lost in the general deconstruction of mind --
Aunt Jenny returned from the abstract to the kiss
on the concrete lips, look: all afterimage bliss
still not fully faded; it's the blind leading the blind,
and you find that you're not immune to her known wiles.
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