Hunting for an evergreen, choking
on tinsel and
the ghosts of statues outside the window.

We all woke up earlier
than usual.
We felt winter ponderous our stomachs--
laden like statue thighs-- like
quiet cashews-- like chocolate box lids 
like stir-fried tinsel--
caught in our throats so that
all of our voices sounded like
cracked bells--
silver bells silver bells 
silver saw blades on the kitchen table--
The wind came with us to conspire
when we met around the 
the boney hearth of the radiator.
We spoke in murmurs and shooed
away the ghosts by lighting
the advent candles early-- 
In retaliation they rattled spoons on 
metal surfaces trying to drown
out our plans-- breathed
heavy and yanked the last leaves
off every maple tree--
They knew what the snap of winter was for.
They knew our melancholy task--
the infamous annual expedition
to hunt down an evergreen tree
to keep watch over the living room--
keep the ghosts of the naked
sculptures from crawling
in the windows at night for warmth--
we all knew it had to be done.
We all knew it was my father's job
to hold a saw blade.
The statues had already
given them warning--
rustled and whirred their
voices through the veins of 
the trees to tell the evergreens to
hide themselves-- cover
their breasts in dried leaves--
shave off their needles-- and 
pretend to be oaks or birch--
curl themselves into wreaths
and die slowly like the bees--
My father told me to wear 
two pairs of socks and 
my old ripped Chuck Taylors--
We were too nervous to sit
down for breakfast so we
stood at the counter and ate
while the statues ghosts
watched us out the window--
my father ladled
Cheerios with a soup
spoon-- cracked his diet
coke can like a geode on the counter--
slipped the yolk down his throat
and reported the taste of tinsel--
and told us we didn't have much
time-- 
Even the windows were sighing with
all the ghosts who wanted 
to put their stone feet on the radiator--
We check the frost for foot
prints.Cast more ghosts 
from our lungs to try to 
smell needles bleeding in
the rock-bitten air--
My father nodded and held high
the saw blade-- we had never
liked the saw blade
though we knew what we needed it for--
we needed it for tinsel-- for
family-- for radiators and 
to keep the naked statues out of the 
living room-- we needed it for
advent-- for blood-- for penance 
and Pentecostal fires where
we could talk quieter than the 
cashews or the chocolate box lids.
Evergreen are terrible at hiding--
we only needed to flow the odor
of their fearful sweat and the 
timid trail of needles she
had tried to wash down the drain--
no the evergreens can't wear enough
dead leaves to trick our family--
we are trained well in the hunt.
It has always been my job to corner
the creature-- her back up against the garage 
we begged my father
to let her go just once--
just this year and my father 
raised the saw and my father cut
and my father slit, slashed, gashed
and lacerated the evergreen free
of her own legs.
Everything is quiet after something
dies. The ghosts stopped their protest
and went back to sulking outside
our living room windows-- picked up
piles of leaves to cover their bare hips
and tried to warm their chests 
now open to the freshly
cracked winter--
in a low hum they sang about silver bells
silver bells silver bells
silver sticky-blood saw blades 
so that we could only feel 
apologies in our stomachs as cold as statue
throats or tinsel.
We helped our father drag
the evergreen by her severed thighs
into the house to keep watch
while winter played spoons
in the pipes of the house
and on the windows-- we washed
our hands in the frost-- and my
father said silver bells silver bells
silver bells 
and swept her leg hair down the drain.