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2 January 2014

This year I will not boast online
of meals prepared; I will not send

Christmas cards of myself in exotic
locales. I prefer to tell you of sharpening

a knife or how I wrote in pen
on a postcard woodcut of the moon

and mailed it. I may tell you of edges,
with verbs that fill the mouth and taste


or this story, how on New Year’s Day
in Uganda, Baby Jesus the cat gives birth

in a midwife’s suitcase to four kittens
who claw the laundered skirt, their mother’s

belly - this story, folded and stolen,
offered on a snowy night as if it were mine.

Posted 12/31/14
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