Memory

This happens to me every Christmas.

Memory

Begrudgingly I gaze upon the box of tarnished decorations

and dread thinking the tree needs trimming

as I open the worn box unwanted thoughts of days gone by flood my mind.


Of you and your drunken insults when I attempt to help

mommy carry those long ago forgotten few trimmings

to the naked tree to dress it for santa's appointed time of arrival.


Stop her, Nina, you screamed she's just a kid and she will break them.

As you slap me the chipped gold angel bulb falls from my hands in slow motion

and so go all my dreams shattering one after another in your vileness.