Trimming the Tree Alone

I turn off the unholiness that is cable news
and cue the music, but it’s all wrong—
endless notes strung like garlands
of wrecked memories, love songs, breakup
songs, dance songs. Silence is worse,
so I settle on the eternal balm of Laura Nyro.
Then “Lonely Women” comes on, and I rush
in to fast-forward to the next song.
I pick up the four cat stockings and hesitate:
Two have died, the others live with my ex.
I let the sadness pass, and hang the red
and green stockings in their honor.
My tree is small this year, it doesn’t take long
to fill it with frosted cones and assorted
ornaments—some meaningful, some new,
a few heavy with the fake snow of my icy marriage.
At the top, I place an angel. She is simple
in form, made of straw, with no eyes, nose
or mouth. I, too, am a faceless angel,
trying to get high on a Stoned Cold Picnic
while I lean in to inhale the pure perfume
of balsam. It’s just a Christmas tree. I know
that, but a ritual is a ritual, and I am trying,
against all odds, to be evergreen.