An older poem of mine, with the name of this month

DECEMBER

I concoct a collage of mulled spices to arouse

a numb tongue. It’s paralyzed. My pendulum

that used to sway.  How it fluctuates

from disengaged doorknob dangling

to bronze fruit. Glossily, brazenly

begging to be picked.  Better than

sticking my head in the oven. Too morbid. Blue flames

heat the samovar and I feel the steamy contours.

Sizzling beads.  Sugar and spice and silt

a dark residue in the bottom of a mug. A numb tongue

bleating. Needing to be unfrosted. Pierced. Decorated

ornately as white paper in a snowflake cutting contest.

Catch this on your tongue. A blade

creating tiny confetti. Bronze fruit begging to be

a bomb.  Shiny words that sway

with a heavy rhythm. With a heady flavor

like spiced, spiked tea. Savory cinnamon, clove, and orange zest

sparkling on my tongue.  Arousing the pendulum.