Thursday, December 6, 2007

Bricks And Holly

Bricks and Holly
by Elizabeth Southwood

After the doctor told me,
I felt as if
I'd been slammed into
an endless wall of
large black-tar bricks.
They filled the air
my breath, my being.
Showers of tears
came and went.

I swallow pills
that cost too much.
You hold me.
I hold you.
seeps through me,
like peeking
at the last page of a mystery.
There are things I now know I'll never do,
like go to Machu Picchu.
It doesn't seem to bother me.

I need to
slice apples,
bake mince pies,
while you cut branches
of prickly satin: holly,
for our Christmas table
from the tree
in our earth-scented,
rainswept yard,
Southwood page 9 of 10
with round red berries
like jeweled blood.
We hold each other.
Your smile
is my present
for eternity.

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