Manos: A Slice of My Memories
(a blackout poem)
Christmas was sheer terror.
Every year as dark descended,
my mother appeared —
perched at the end of the table
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