Almost December, Thanksgiving over
Outside is frozen once again. The warm
TV is on and logs burn in the stove.
I am eating Aunt Fern’s dried tomatoes
Dessicated skins like mummies from the
Pyramids. Yum Yum Yum all of her Love’s
Ripe on my tongue, the harvest of August
Coming to life in my moistening mouth.
Fireflies exist in the light of my spit
And what had seemed hard and dead’s a red sweet
Salamander slipping between my teeth
Just some of the things Aunt Fern’s present is
I’d be satisfied if this were heaven.