After the Celebration
Outside the back door, off the street
lit with snow-glow, though dry, quiet,
half the family huddles, smoking.
We shoot breeze through chattering teeth
– Grandad’s dying, Isaac’s growing –
as we pass the glowing lighter.
Above, the steamed pane, its bright light
breaking through the false snowy glow,
tells us someone’s in the bath, warm.
A wind biting our necks and ears,
gnawing at us cold ones outside
to drag deeper, fill our chilled lungs.
We feel the pull of the pure-lunged
and finish, one by one, moving
like ball bearings to a magnet.
The cold light behind the curtains,
we huddle now around the warm
glow of the box in the corner.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
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