ангел

Yearly, the rum-infused drawing of the tide 

Froths up the same ring of faces, 

Messages in bottles, ship-wreckage, 

From this sea of half-cut guests. Stirring… 

Once slowly counterclockwise, 

The earth around the sun, 

The black cauldron of the universe 

Brews a curse, — insidious. 

High above the sea in gold and white, 

A lighthouse beacon, observant mute, 

Arms spread inviting in anything, 

Perches the tree topper.  

When needles drop, carols drift 

Into last year, nostalgic notes freezing 

Within a snowflake, when every cracker is pulled, pulled, 

Pulled, mistletoe tossed into boxes— 

Off she is plucked, wings tucked, halo scuffed, 

One parting glance of daylight; into a box, stuffed. 

Up in the attic, trapped in the annual stir, 

The wings fade their gold, delicate stitching 

Loosens behind moth-nibbled eye, 

Memory clings in mustiness, determined; 

Alas, by the next decade, she will be replaced 

By the impeccable Christmas Star.