Nicole Tallman

Green Light

On Christmas, no one can really go home.
Home is a place that exists in the past.
Do you remember yourself at your happiest?
Some of the best memories smell like winter-whipped
pine. Some others smell like summer-drunk grass.
If you bundle up a room full of presents,
you’ll still crave the edgy emptiness of your last fast.
Holidays are hooks of grieving green and greed
and yet nativities naively narrate each new year
as somehow different from the last.

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