eighteen days until christmas

by maggie nelson, from shiner

i lost the romance of this place
and woke up old. one darling
fantasy shattered over the next,
folding over a fist drenched
in my hip. the christmas trees
are bound and stacked up
outside, the air can't decide
what to make of itself, and we
are about to throw a president
out. you are not your mother,
and each of your dead lives on
in you and smells like the moon.
large and mosquito-like,
my prose clatters off
my fingers. i woke up old
and into happy uncertainty,
the vitamins i feed to the streets,
the real relations within a bead.
oh pouring cylinder, stark
uncertainty, racket of leaves
helicoptering to their death--
my love is coming out
over and over again.
here it is, what
i always wanted. the air
spills ash; i suppose
it is light.