Screeeech goes the sound of the metal door sliding to a close in a house black as crows. An owl howling—juxtaposed with white earthenware pecked by rainbows. Happy Christmas from the trenches of bone meat and parsley. I’m legs crossed in a quiet corner screaming “cut!” because this strange stage play needs to be noosed. The compactor reeks of trauma pressed too neatly. Coats piled on the floor with salted mistletoe. A savory kiss from the host as she clack clack clacks her dentures. A hand not to be slapped, but severed—falling onto the feast table. A crack of pepper. The guests scream as apples tumble from the backyard tree. Quickly wheeled away to conceal all of the rotting. You see, the morning sun in Harmon insists on licking a clean lawn. But this boy is a dawn renegade with a fistful of fuel. And when I unearthed your heart, I set it aflame. Cranberries in my smile, while the black house burns.