Stephen Cushman
POEMS
 

January


What a scam.
Throw us back a few scraps of light
for our emaciated afternoons,

and without an almanac no one will know
you carved that light
off darker mornings.

If I could illuminate
a new Book of Hours,
I'd skip the Circumcision,

pass up Epiphany, even drop
the Confession of Peter
and Conversion of Paul

to draw cartoons of all
the nitwits in t-shirts
who think your thaw

means beans and is
a merciful beneficence
granted in the coldest month

rather than the sadist's ruse
to lull as we resume the plough,
then lash us raw.

You're namesake of the god of gates.
So what. Two-faced is two-faced.
I like you least. And sometimes hate.
.

   
   
   

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