Straight razor
it is the day to take down
the lights, the cheerful
blow-ups and my small
ever-growing Santa village.
the wind cuts like a straight
razor, so close you can feel
how smooth, terror. the leaves
rot underneath
the naked maple, loose limbs
litter the yard at the rate of one
every three weeks, weakened
by weather eroding the root base.
I gather them to burn for campfire
kindling, wondering if it feels
like it’s turning invisible, the way i’ve often felt
heat rising in my throat
till there’s nothing left
of me but an empty hole,
unable to speak, the once
song lodged in my throat.
my life singed away from
every picture.
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