THE HAPPIEST DAY OF THE YEAR
I am seated beside the profile of a pig snout in mid-grin
and I'm convinced of something sinister. Yes, Christmas
time can knife you in the neck like that. One whack,
there goes your cottonpickin head. The red,
the green, both grossly represented;
a massacre of cranberries and string beans screaming underneath paprika.
The table, webbed in white lace, takes a beating.
Wine is bleeding in erratic patterns. Mom prays
by herself, my fingers far too busy with the rise
of piggy's stiff, delicious mouth.
K.R. Copeland lives in Lansing, IL.