stuck as a splinter
in my hand. I remember December
as the coldest month, the first
Christmas you were not here. And people

said “wait til next year.” Next year
is a stillborn birth. And all I can do
is weep at the girth of deaths. Underneath
the wreath on the door is a sign –

don’t stand around here without
the shot. I’ll take mine in the mouth. I’ve
shot myself in the foot. I’d walk out
on myself. Irreconcilable differences I’d claim.