Friday, December 24, 2010

A Christmas poem by Pris Campbell


Snow Globe

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.

Christmas Eve…
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.

--Pris Campbell

Previously published in Sketchbook Journal, 2007 and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, 2009.

6 comments:

Pris said...

Thank you so much, Curtis. I just posted a link to this on Facebook!

DeadMule said...

Thanks once again, Pris. And Curtis for posting.

Terri L. French said...

Awesome Pris! Gave me shivers.

My favorite part:

Christmas Eve…
our futures still stretched out ahead of us
on some gypsy’s palm.

and the whole idea of savory a memory in a snow globe--wouldn't that be nice?

Pris said...

Thank you, Helen and Terri for your wonderful comments.

judi said...

crisp as a winter's evening, fantastic!

snowbird said...

Merry Christmas, Pris! Oh, how wonderful it would be to have some things back but with different endings! Love your poem...