These two were included in the inaugural issue of a new online literary journal, apt.
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it's hard to celebrate christmas
in the center of a crime scene,
but we do it every year,
in the living room,
gathered around a tree
that has been dead for several months
and has been spray-painted green.
one year, we all forced smiles
and jumped at the ringing phone
when one of us was missing.
another year,
we all burst into tears
upon the unwrapping
of a tiny pair of jeans.
last year was uneventful,
though something small and dark
was smoldering beneath the surface
in the manner of a discarded cigarette
about to ignite a forest fire.
gathering around the piano,
or near the fire built once a year for the occasion,
or in a strained semi-circle with one parent on each end,
we do our best to rise above the individual sins
and make merry.
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credit union
it's called a family transfer,
when you bid the bank to slide money from your account
into one with a negative balance
belonging to your sister.
it's the tax you pay
for having traded your dreams,
for having thick skin,
for your guilty conscience.
where is the family transfer
which can carry these across the miles:
a healthy mind,
a healthy body,
an unbroken heart?
if the bank could transfer these,
you would raise your yoke
and plow the uninspiring fields
with the force of 200 oxen.
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