A Week before Christmas
I
The night is so beautiful
and so frightening
I hesitate
before I follow the dog
further up into the white
road where snow doesn't
disguise the ice.
Stars have appeared in the east
and wise men at intersections
sweep rumour up with broken glass.
People hurt each other
in ways kept out of the papers
but known to those
who minister to others
in unnaturally bright rooms
and have the knowledge
the butcher has
when he turns from cutting meat
and looks you in the eye.
Ahead of me
in the dimness
I see forming
what is possibly a shape.
At first, it's just a fog,
material as fear.
Then I realize
it's what death will be like-
a shape that,
imperceptible at first,
runs toward you
long enough
to become a dog.
II
When the truck broadsided her,
like a stone rolled from a sepulchre,
I imagine it felt
like an event
she'd been driving toward
her whole life,
as if she'd come all that way
for this.
It struck her hard
and tied up her life
just before Christmas
in red ribbons
and deposited her
on the other side of everything
she knew, like a package
delivered to the wrong address.
Left there a few days,
then opened by strangers,
who uncovered the secrets
survivors know,
who may not have
or may have
marveled
at what they found.
Structure
58 lines · 10 stanzas