Christmas on 4th

I am sitting in the black cashmere cape.

The one your aunt left behind when she died.

The one I never would have purchased on my own,

but now find myself wearing all the time,

like some dark poetess.

I am swollen,

a stuffed turkey

on Christmas morning.

The gifts I wanted to put under the tree

never materialized,

we were too sick to go out and buy them.

Instead, we stayed home 

and made kale and white bean soup,

and red cabbage with apples and beer,

and cranberry with pear,

and we ate and we ate,

and we marveled at how much we have 

without a single present to unwrap.