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Minor Holidays



St. Valentine,

We use the rusty Chinese cleaver

to cut a frozen pizza on it’s own dead cardboard.

Today the ants will take the crumbs

and I know she hides the bleeding

at her third interview this week.


St. Patrick,

We argue while the corned beef boils

and the cabbage, the weight of a child’s head,

rolls off the cutting board.

I mention that cabbage is 49 cents per pound

and how expensive it would be for us to raise a child.


Super Bowl Sunday,

I sit in a recliner and reach backwards

to feel the muscles push my shoulders into my ears.

I build temples to the fresh cut grass

and breathe in the ghosts of old wind sprints.

She watches Beyonce’s leg run from rib to ankle.


Thanksgiving.

We have no family,

living on an island of our own making.

We have pots and pans, a little furniture, and a dog

who claims us as her pack.

We run with her, sniffing the moments and howling at the years passing.


Black Friday,

Wake up early

and haul two old bikes up a muddy trail.  

The highway hushes behind us and the light flirts through the trees.

We are eight years old again, each other’s first crush and last love,

the way it should and can never be.


Posted 03/13/17
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