This vivid morning,
owl still howling a dirge
into another daytime,
I am reminded of you,
twelve years ago, conniving
me to stay up all night,
wrap gifts while listening
to the crinkle of your voice:
Your wife had cheated.
Packed up and left. Not
just abandoning you,
but the kids, the dog.
The mess. You blew smoke
from your latest cigarette. Took
a swig of misty-eyed bourbon.
Dammit, how could she do that,
especially during the holidays?
I told you twice, I had no more money.
You said you just wanted something
for your daughter. I told you I had
no more money. You cursed "bitch"
as I peeled the bow back. Stuck
it to the last package, flamboyant
in its celebratory clothing.
Passing itself off as honesty.
Disguising itself as Christmas.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Copyright April 12, 2025
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse, Poetry Month 2025
