CHRISTMAS IN ANNADA, MISSOURI

POPULATION: 28

    matty bennett

 

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If you sit on the porch long enough,

the farm equipment in Grandma's yard

will grow wings and flap into the overcast sky.

 

If you sit in the kitchen with Grandma

as she rocks back and forth in her rocking chair,

her cheeks will become the Missouri River bluffs.

 

This will be good for you. You will get lost

driving through those bluffs. You will leave behind

family that refuse to look into your eyes.

 

If the dark basement keeps calling your name,

you will sneak downstairs and pull out

memories through your temples as cobwebs.

 

Keep them in corners: the unwieldy feeling

of a shotgun, the racing through dense woods

in summer, Grandpa's face in his casket.

 

If the stomping shoes above your head finally

stop, and the upstairs becomes silent, you should

tell those strangers to stop praying for you.

 

If you don't, their prayers for you to be

an illusionist of love and lust will spiral upward

into the dense gray clouds of Christmas.

 

If the snow begins to fall, grab one of Grandpa's

old flannels. Rush outside to the barren cornfields.

Lean your head back and watch the swirling snow.

 

Remember that each flake is someone's plea

for you to be something you're not. Then, feel

every snowflake melting on your hot face.