Having Your Shit, Together

Paid off the Christmas debt

and it's Christmas again.

The roof needs a roof.

Nanna’s deep into Tucker,

said over Sunday dinner that

abortions cause hurricanes,

my daughter’s face darkening

with the kind of understanding

I wish

I’d missed.

My savings, a trail

of breadcrumbs eaten,

my work, all pee-smell

and no-show.

Time to throw in the towel,

I think, give it all up,

when rushing forth from

a dark and dismal wood

to slay what wants to

roast me like a chicken

my Friend, curls unfurling

golden in her wake.

She cuts the throat

and cleans the mess,

shakes a blanket out

with lunch for two.

Later, walking through

the old cemetery where

we decide to bury it,

she says it’s never-ending.

We promised not to forsake

the girls we were, she says,

fingering the dark moss

on a blackened headstone,

then slaps me hard

before the hug.