by Ellen O'Donnell


I have lost myself this Christmas,
And, Mother, I'm not coming home.
I'm wandering through these broken streets,
I traverse this trek alone.

Past the glowing, yellow windows,
By the grotto shut and gone,
Past the tattered, battered old motel,
And the crackling pylon.

I'll walk far unto the hinterland,
And sit slaughtered in the snow,
To behold the iridescent lights,
Of the mapless gorge below.

I'll coil up in the glacial cold,
Until the air I breathe is rime,
Until the ground gnaws my fetid bones
And my blood tastes of lime.

Mother, I've lost myself this Christmas,
And I'm sorry if I don't come home.