History’s living end in a motel room is a dying Christmas tree, leaning
as a spotty cow on a fence blaming iced-over wire barbs for stealing
the horizon.

The executive director of a small town exhibit in the museum
of bruised embarrassments of bent shins against bed frames
is at the opposite of birth, saying he hasn’t showered

in months. This ain’t Christmastime, an AC drips manila mud
as curtain dust dreams of freezer-burn houses
& loves a good fight of children against fists.

The hot world froze in place for a tiny bit of molecular destruction
of god stopping the sun for one last fight. I lost the trees I carry
in armpits as we hugged.

I held my breath as he asked to use the hotel shower.
It’s been months since he’s felt water, smell
my stripped father in front of his son like a front road room bride.

Bad guy roaches lift antennas to this great dying white tree body
of Christmas flock-sprayed Hallmark canvas, ornamental bruises
fish-hooked into forearms.

This is what life does, a corpse caked to his chest, where he held
newly-made infant me as we watched an Oklahoma storm relume clouds
& crown unlit trees with light & sound, I fit in a man’s hands

who lifted me to the window of thunder & sharp light spikes
but now I count ribs so god can make us both more ex-wives,
name new dogs the same name, never a new day’s sun.

At the end of each year, I forgot summer would feel like this
& graced a star on a whittled pine tip bent against the ceiling,
as it died in our home for the rest of the year & star-shine leaked under doors

of those who held me to sharp skies to name another celebration
on someone else’s birthday, ascending as a sunrise in soft eyes
every Christmas morning so my family knew they weren’t dead.