Christmas in July
For almost two years,
my company’s been a heavy bathrobe
four sizes too big,
a heating pad, a blanket
to smother my useless leg.
My home was my hole.
In my mind, I straddled
the crater the best I could.
It was never enough
and teardrops washed the sun
until its fireball was cold.
All it took was artificial parts that fit.
Depression lifted like smoke
that meets a racing wind.
Finally, I’m back again –
the fish with a hook
unpinned from its mouth.
I’m not so jealous of hummingbird wings.
While pain remains,
it’s lukewarm water
I can swallow and drink.
It’s only July,
but the Grinch who stole Christmas
handed it back.
by Janet I. Buck
*First Published in Offcourse
Tags: poetry, essays, grief, hope
