The rental A-frame on Casco Bay
has one-and-a-half baths and a mute
handyman she hired in May. It’s
December: his left eye clouded
up around Thanksgiving, and now
its stiffening blue makes her think
of the boreal winter she survived
in Saskatchewan, the night her best
Guernsey fell through the ice.
she loathes carolers, their hairless
chins, the stench of sacred hymns
and condescension and possibly gin
as the little ones lob snowballs at her
window, heralds of joy she feels hit
from high in the attic. Novel idea,
but she knows she’s already chosen.
Below her in the snow-black house
the man stirs, howls, begins to sing.