Stirring our bodies like mice,
the sugar plum groove and 
boy saints shoved down our chimneys--

When I was seven I dreamed my skin
into wrapping paper to smother
the mice in the basement--
the nest-- the coil-- the tinsel tangle--
we had nightmares about their
bodies writhing in another glue trap--
fur peeling like tangerines
in the pot on the stove-- what did 
we kill the mice for? 
Every Christmas I felt sorry because
my brother and I stirred our bodies
like the mice-- hands and knees 
and my father's sweater sleeves
we slept in-- I woke my brother
up to remind him we had to
protect the house but he wasn't
scared because my brother was a boy
and didn't mind someone coming down 
the chimney-- no one breaks windows
for brothers-- he could sugar plum
groove and steal cookies from 
the plate like all little boys are
taught to do-- we grew fingers of
mice and gamboled gentle on
the arms of the clock-- 
elbow turn into midnight--
we waited as anxious as the last step 
up the staircase to the attic.
That's where the ghosts of the bats
ate mice tails and sugar plums--
wrapped wings for Christmas and roasted
tangerines on in the oven--
I know who taught me my skin 
was wrapping paper. We all do.
We keep names like 
ribbons and bows from unwrapped gifts-- 
Christmas cards we'll never read again
under our beds--
don't throw me away like
a glue trap-- tangerine skin girl-body again--
finger nails through my skin--
teach me to become a present for you
saint boy in your red suit-- 
did you eat cherries or sugar plums
or the bricks down my chimney to become
so red soot and scramble like another mouse--
why don't we make glue traps for boys
who come to eat our cookie plates?
make welcome mats of the stove top
and wipe boots on the door knob--
my father sleeps like a tangerine 
drink milk-- wipe chocolate
from saint nick gloves on the carpet--
leave us stained and 
peel skin like wrapping paper-- 
was I your present to wrap and unwrap
wrap and unwrap--
Merry Christmas tag this girl-body in
training-- we sleep under the tree
for him-- waiting with all these cookies-- 
bows on our wrists tied like a witch
to a Christmas tree-- mouse back 
glue trap-- we are here waiting
by another chimney just
to watch him eat the bricks--
one by one shortbread jaws
of a man with claws--
saint saint saint and the black sack
to keep all us wrapped up girls--
squirm like mice while
my brother takes a cookie from the
plate and peels it in two--
dip milk and sugar plum groove back to bed
where I have never slept
and he falls into the taunt ribbon
of a stirred mouse dream-- I'm listening for 
feet on the roof-- we're taught
to love the man who wants to 
descend down our chimneys ready to
wrap us up perfect for the
dirt beneath the tree-- burn tangerines
and plums to leave the room smelling
like saints-- 
Yes I remember his name. We all 
do. We all know who
made our skin into wrapping paper--
we all tried to sway like a sugar plum--
we all baked so many cookies
and never ate a single one--
face down in a glue trap-- bow wrist 
and sugar plum sugar plum dance
with him back up a chimney--