The Maynard
Spring 2018

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Boxing Day

i told my mother

on boxing day
what you did.

i wish you could have seen it
words sluicing her eyes shut
until the sting wore off enough
for her to open them
to deep sea sting
but really

how does a twelve-year-old find the words?

to say
she was
oyster shucked
feather plucked
pulled hard like fruit from a verdant branch
water spilled on the crotch of your pants

how you
grandfather
now have me on boxing day wondering
if even Father Christmas was cursed with a little child lust too

how does a twelve–year-old tell her mother?

that you courted my monkey bar craving
with a Wendy’s frosty
visits to the library
watched me dance around in overalls?

how I waited for the poison to enter her blood
veins charged clean with a cold smack of truth
a spat out tooth
bitter juice.

and I contemplate
how abrupt it is

when the radio stops playing carols
on boxing day.