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Merry Christmas! Yesterday my mother and Aunt gave me a box of paper, with every single poem of the year printed. It was very heavy. That was a lovely gift, especially given that even after a year of doing this every day, I am still so blogilliterate that I can’t figure out how to make a month-by-month archive. It made me cry. They’ve been reading them, and that a) makes me feel loved, and b) is embarrassing. Because I know the poems have gotten shorter, and lazier, and sloppier, and now I have evidence. I know that the poems have gotten shorter and less topical, and I’m so exhausted at the end of 2014 that I shy away from the news that moves me, and I go too fast, because I have no time, and I want to slow down. In 2015, I think I’ll give myself a piece, of what ever genre I choose, a week. Or a month? The daily deadline doesn’t offer me much in terms of time, and it is a bad feeling. I know I’ve tired of poems, but there are seven left, which is nothing. It would be nice to have thought something poem-y at some point today. Christmas Christmas Christmas, gush gush gush, whatever. I want something truer, and closer to the bone. This is the last week of the year. Let’s write a poem about that.

December 25th, 2014

Nobody has ever been here before, not right at this minute, in this year, not yet, no one but the newborn. It is really just a record of flashings, and brief pretty minutes and small claps on the back, this year. It is just a pile of shock, bright minutes up against the weighty dark. At this, the years end, we are plumb out of feels, shellish and full of shaken cheer. At this, the dark end of the cycle, we are reduced to hugs, pulse-lowering caresses, and glittered paper, and the universal feeling of shaking it all off and driving and driving and driving away from responsibilities and care. The Ed Abbey jerkface feeling, the Nowhere Girl feeling, the looming and shiny shadow that calls with a pulse, like counting in the blood. It is the beat that knows that we don’t know, not at all, whether this will be the year we part. It is a scared and quivering stroke that leads us both forward into what we know of nothing. If this is a record of the year, so be it. It was bloody, and violent, invasive, mean, pushy, rude, entitled, and bitchy and we will be glad rid of it. It was a wretch of a year, mutilated and worthy of punishment and exile, but in there were the shiny minutes of good and great hope. Sometimes, in the small hours, there was some praise. Many requests for help, some more dire than others. Rarely, sunrises, often sunsets over the lake with the laden sky, grey, pink, and heavy. Sometimes we consulted myths. Sometimes we asked the advice of the dead. Always we wanted more. Always we wanted more than routine, and worried about the endless days of dinners and backpacks, not coffee spoons but carafes and uninsulated cups. This year, the fourteenth of the century, is stubborn and heavy. It is a load to bear. But, its a new one ’round the way, and I could take you by the hand and bring you to a table, somewhere coded and secret, like a secret of literature, where the key is lost to everyone but ourselves, and there we would reassure ourselves, and make a flash in the dark against the coming year.

Hmm. This is half sad, half sexy. Isn’t that how most of a year goes? Although this year, for me, was way, way sad and way sexy. And it is the first poem of the last weeks of poems of the year. Which is great for me. Thank you, poemfriends, for reading. Happy Thursday!