The Gift

She hides in a closet
on shoebox lids
through musty suits

uncle works on a bottle
cigarettes, TV set

mom and dad scrape their plates
by the Christmas tree
they don’t see him
the bedroom door, closes in

and there’s a shotgun underneath his couch
"but he finds me...and he loves me to keep..."

"I’m feeling sick.  Can we go back
to grandma’s yet?"

out on the porch
the house was loud; she told him so
walked into the yard
to get some air, against a tree

"little bitch," he called.
"too conceited to stand by me
I’ll do you a favor put you in your place."
grounded, hands around her face

"I’m feeling sick.  Can we leave 
the party yet?"

Empty grows a hungry smile
staring down trapped by the gaze
a body; the object; body; libido

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