Here I am,

I am Albert Thompson.

Home for the holidays, of course.

Hello, Cove Road.

Mother, father, family assembled, waiting­­—

prime examples of performative adoration.

Love is an expensive electric toothbrush:

Painfully enthusiastic

Makes you taste the blood in your mouth

You can always hear its unpleasant murmuring.

 

Christmas Eve

Let’s all go to the beach!

What a geographical luxury.

A dark line of debris is washed ashore by the tide­­

(Like dead mermaid’s hair).

Too morbid,

maybe she’s still alive.

Her scalp must feel free,

like I would be if I were homeless and could steal it for adornment.

The little birds flounce along the swirls of her weave.

 

I am the flamboyant penguin of the family,

Bertie or Alberta in grandfather’s spiteful drawl.

Que será será.

Disappointment is life’s most irreversible gift.

Mother forgot to put sheets on my bed,

An indication of loathing or dementia.

 

The pumpkin pie tastes like a betrayal;

I want to rouge my face with it

and embroider my smock with green beans.

I will flower my shirt with the red wine

and put on long hair that smells of sea salt.

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