erupts
on the home front.
it's the holidays,
so what else
is new.
a sister recalls the time
i cut
off the head
of her favorite
doll
with a hacksaw.
but she left my baseball
glove
in the yard
to be stolen,
signed by Mickey Mantle,
leather and brand new,
so what was i to do.
it's a free for all at this
point,
as the wine gets poured,
the cocktails
made,
the desserts dug into.
old wounds surface,
hard words once said
forty years ago
are suddenly
repeated verbatim.
my mother sits there
at the head of the table,
amused,
happy to have us all
together once more.
there's no place like home
for the holidays.
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