The Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come by Ben Schwarz

The moon is ill.

A black tire swings from the
Broken arm of a tree
Robbed of its sling.
A bike hangs twisted through the hole like
Half-chewed spaghetti.

We woke up one morning
To find the curtains hiding no window.
The church bells are ringing lopsided
In an empty wind,
And no-one has seen a bird
In days.

The TV is broken,
But we sit in the empty room
And stare at the empty screen
Wondering who is digesting whom
As nobody talks to nothing.
The smell of ozone
Reminds us of the Queen,
And when we used to scream trivialities
Into each others’ ears.

We hold hands
As a single black flake
Falls from the sky and smudges
On your forehead.

Three children,
With nails longer than teeth,
Scrabble into the alleys
To snort the ashes
Of a Christmas tree.

Artwork by Rebecca Yeh

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2 Responses to The Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come by Ben Schwarz

  1. John says:

    This is excellently written, weird but enjoyable to read.

  2. Sounds pretty apocalyptic! I like it.

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