Not Ready for the Coda
Pluck the star, the heart, the reindeer,
unhook the horse, the bells and baubles,
wind up the skeins of twinkling bright,
that merry talkback to the stark, and bubble
wrap, again, the angel,
oh!, fierce sentinel.
Fill the boxes, touch the labels printed
neatly by the dead. Stack and store. Beneath
our feet, needles snap and brittle crunch
to the curb, and on our hands—sap,
a gift like frankincense.
Kingly, ascend
to drowse and deep, oblivion: mechanics
of sprawl and sleep. All body heat amidst
pink flannel sheets. Wee hours, one
awakens, then
the other, chest pain
radiating down the shoulder. Water,
pills of cannot sleep. Phone and nurse
and proper scramble: socks and shirt
and girding loins. Outside, brash
and swirling
lights, hiss of diesel, fleet
of boots, business
voices clomp inside
amplified by know-how hands. Beloved
carapace and shooting star arrayed
across a blank of stretcher, out the door,
siren song to lonely follow. No choice
but wait. Please, nothing else put away.
Heather Jessen has poems appearing or forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Southern Humanities Review, Pangyrus, and elsewhere. A former resident of Australia, she lives in Connecticut.