Friday, December 24, 2010
A Christmas poem by Pris Campbell
Wiry haired Nick on my left,
the one yet to die in a plane crash,
and John, once-lover,
now friend, on my right,
hold me in our giddy weave
through the snow bombed Boston Commons.
our futures still stretched out ahead of us
on some gypsy’s palm.
We kiss where the sidewalks meet.
Nick’s mouth tastes of weed,
John’s of some sweet sticky punch.
My laugh slices the dark like a laser.
A star loosens; falls.
I wish this night
might become a snow globe
to take home and shake
on some other Christmas Eve.
I want to see us again,
we three on this holy night
high and shivering,
young and invincible,
as we dance to the last tinkling
strains of Liebestraum.
Previously published in Sketchbook Journal, 2007 and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, 2009.