and Candy Canes
of childhood cannot coat  
stains of switches. Witch’s broom
sweeps the dirt under the carpet

in every room. Monsters
underneath the bed don’t tell
tales. But they’re not dead. They’re
alive in a little girl’s curly

head. Ribbons and satin dresses
in white don’t cover rips and
holes in floral tights. It’s all
boxed up under the tree. Metallic

tinsel hangs like a flapper’s
dress. Guests stand outside the door
to become one of her décor. Glass
decanters hold amber gold

they swallow down. But they can
not hold a conversation without
screams. They mix it in their coffee
with sugar and cream.