Manos: A Slice of My Memories

(a blackout poem)

Christmas was sheer terror.

Every year as dark descended,

my mother appeared —

ghastly hands

perched at the end of the table

ancient twins:

A slice of fixed mistrust.

Father an assortment of minced medieval love

began to gradually disappear

leaving only the pale facsimile 

that ruled the table.

Both preferred the ceremonial toss

of adorned excess —

hurtling onward, tied to our past 

and to strange bonds.

“I have been writing every day of my life, seven days a week, for almost 50 years. Even Christmas Day. But I still enjoy it.”

— Michael Bond