handfuls of air

The crack of my grandmother's skull

against the linoleum floor

next to the tree,

like an egg, bursting

open this overcooked era,

pouring out, done. We know

what will come from the blood

I wipe from her glasses.

We know silent.

Bodies rule over persons.

This family of smiles, denials -

we see the whites of the eyes

of the world, the future bruised,

and Christmas forever over.