Christmas Morning

the Witnesses stand, beholding 
at the unhinged door 

tablets fired up, verses taut

like rattlers’ ready for striking

I’m naked, quiet

hiding, still shaking

nursing a fresh wound 

found in knuckle blood

drywall pounded through

skin flap holes, bone gone sore 

ripped the closet doors  

like holy temple drapes

windows never stood

a chance, knocked by

the telegraphic fist

in these last days, anger 

is all limbs and memory

this gift, this untempered 

bonus, I’ll take it

like my father, my birthright

the red-cell smears bright

across back splash tile

Jesus

this scarred house

creaks

for another

carpenter

and they 

know it