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I poke into night,
where corners of whores
ready in their Santa hats
approach my car
dressed like sexy elves
or a prized present,
back home stockings
hung from long legs
to the foot of the bed,
her cranberry juice flow—
lying on the sheets
as a Christmas cookie
of a cutout angel,
straight from the oven
carved and craved
naked of frosting-
soon into sleep,
I dreamt once more
of eating her again,
the triangle-shaped box
a meal in a metal bed
crumbs and tangled hairs
on the wooden floor-
I would unwrap her
the blankets,
ribbon tied hair-
the cold toes that curled
in the night,
throw a log into the fire,
and come to her
with another long log
from my snowmen boxers
into her warm box-
as the mistletoe
holding below
would lose its grip
of a simple kiss,
while we shook the
foundation of the
gingerbread house,
that Christmas morning;
two glasses of leftover
spiked eggnog knocked
to the floor, and me
tormenting over the question:
if I've been naughty
or nice this year.
I remember us-
how we danced those endless nights;
twelve struck with a magical stroke,
the moon above would melt
in our eyes,
young love graced as one.
Summer days heat
we would go to the beach:
feet sank into sand
double-fudge dripped off our cones.
She would wrap herself
in the cool blue lake
and stroke,
afloat the thrusting waves.
Yesterday pictures,
a frame can only hold.
White and gray ran with me
and bent the concepts captured in.
I sit with two alone-
when I talk to her today,
only the birds answer back.
The t.v. gives me intention,
the radio motion;
she is half-conscious
and I am her stranger:
that feeds, diapers and
tucks her expired eyes to bed.
Her face is half-beaten
with gravity, muscles weak to
control her bladder.
It hurts to smile.
But still I hope for the better.
Soon the day will end
and it will be dark. I
will wash her nipples
and change her sheets. Then
at the stroke of twelve,
I shall dance again–
to the thousand beats of eternity;
that you will never be skeleton
when I am in ghost.
Today I lost an argument
with a my father,
and he won the reaps
of satisfaction;
and still I don't feel
like a loser,
and I bet
he doesn't feel
much a winner.
Death taps my shoulder
like a poker player
taps his chip
against a hand,
he turns me around
to face him,
my eyes plug into
his steel eyes
and I see life
flash before me,
wishing our lines
of communication
would end.
Stale wax
reverses itself
from a bottomed plate,
rising itself to
a candlestick,
the hot drips
slowly running
upward around
a burning wick,
loose and free
it came together
once again,
the beauty of its
carved design,
delicate colors
soft aroma—
it stands anew.
A lighter approaches
a flame ignites,
and looking on I wish
a gust of wind
would have come through
and blew back the yellow
flame dancing atop,
transeunt to
time–elusive to blood
that breaks darkness
before the creation
of a sunset.
Anthony Liccione lives in Texas with his wife and two children. He has three collections of poetry: Heaven's Shadow (Foothills Publishing), Parched and Colorless (The Moon Publishing) and Back Words and Forward (Publish America). His forth book, Please Pass Me, the Blood & Butter is now available through Lulu Press.