This Christmas is made by hand.
I open up my chest and let the sky in.
I pull out the stuffing from last year.
I use a crochet hook to clean out the corners.
The bags of ribbon are on the dining table.
Running my hand down the ragged scar.
It makes me smile.
I have chosen a jaunty thread this year.
I will pack in more this time than last.
Safety pins hold the corners closed.
Wrapped in tight, I am held together warmly.
Everything I have is handmade.
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Hi Anya, I really like this poem, it’s got such effective images here, the way the violent edge to them contrasts with classic Christmas-objects.
Thank you Ashley. I do not really think of myself as a poet… Maybe I should reconsider this?
Yeah, Why not? I think you definitely could, this one is great. Got any more?