Saturday before Christmas
all is sane,
if not Good Housekeeping
or Martha Stewart.
The usual things undone,
outdoor lights –
I just don’t pull it off,
despite my intentions.
Baking foregone to avoid
calories I don’t need.
Our decade-old tree
has never looked better,
it’s true he’s missing
branches on one side,
but makes up for it
with the bend he’s
made, like a river,
to avoid the roof.
I listen to Elvis,
my favorite Christmas
Remembering who I am
from their voices,
the alluvial Delta
that spawned me.
Thinking of baking
my mother’s pineapple
upside-down cake
with chickpea flour,
debating dried pineapple,
dehydrated cane juice
over brown sugar.
The chipped depression
glass cake plate
like my mother’s,
the one she always
served the upside-
down on,
vs. the green glass plate
my friend gave me
last Christmas.
My mother made
her cake in a
cast-iron skillet,
I used to as well,
but I don’t have one
any more.

Though I’m thinking
maybe I should.