Graceful bookends, one of you arriving 
on the crown of December,  
the other on the tip of its tail. 

Watchful guardians of the door, 
binders of wanderings. 
Near anagrams for smother-danger.  

Spellcasters with cut-glass shakers:  
dusty pepper, rice-studded salt, 
meat tenderizer for jellyfish stings. 

Your beloved faces repainted 
in compact mirrors, curls 
quickly marshaled in plate glass. 

Eyes hardened to fox-points 
reflected in rear-views to halt 
a backseat’s nonsense. 

In one refrigerator, 
Romeo & Juliet; in the other, 
cold sliced tongue. 

The Talmud suggests Adam 
killed the world’s sole unicorn 
to thank the hidden voice for ending 

the first season of short, dark days. 
December, I hold my squalling daughter 
to my chest inside my coat 

in Our Lady of the Valley’s 
parking lot, the neighborhood’s  
last portal, last turnaround. 

To go further spills into gone away. 
I wish I had had a calmer heart. 
A sound for her of the sea.  

From nowhere, a soft peach 
street lamp flickers on & the snow 
caught in its path lulls us quiet.  

Both of us now 
all tired grateful eyes. 
Enchanted. 

I assumed, 
& how wrongly, a what-to-do  
would birth itself 

once she arrived. A literal guide. 
My graceful bookends, I will 
savor any sign. 

I am— 
we are— 
we are doing my best.