For those who hide at Christmas

 

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

For him it was himself

a black sheep that succumbed to the annual lamb

trying to decipher a meaningful verse in a moonpig card that never stood up.

 

For her it was a babe

up there in the dead sea of blue sky

she floated to him in fish spines of hoar frost

with all the Motherships camouflaged amongst kinships.

 

For those who hide at Christmas meet me in the breathy fog and

I will not say a word about the words that chime like ice,

and we can hide until it’s over not saying safe words

those who hide at Christmas breathe ghostly bows.

 

For her it was a phone call that comes but once a year

the invitations beeping into Christmas lights

a clowns mask made from gin and mascara

becoming the other for others.

 

For those who hide at Christmas

find me in the worm that dances in tequila,

find me in the crow-cracked sky broke like cheap china,

find me in the child who coloured over the edges to show, exactness.