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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

whole

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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