December by Dah Helmer

Dawn’s shadowy cast church bells ring like empty skulls winter trees cheerless and glum Into the wind a crow trails the wet air lands on a wire A cold hand in a pocket There is no movement but my shiver Earth is pure in its grief I stare into December’s pale body and feel as it feels More wind the crow wobbles I pull my collar up tuck into my heat walk in the street It is early the light is blind At a Mexican house a manger display Jesus is plastic with white skin and in this emotionally torrid world my only concern is Will the café be open?

PREVIOUS TABLE OF CONTENTS NEXT Biography

Copyright © 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors. No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.