I pack up Christmas decorations on New Year’s Day.
My grandmother’s glass ornaments with most of the glitter
worn off I tuck safely into bubble wrap. The blue and white
plates from Denmark go back into their original red boxes.
I burn the pine garland in the fireplace.
My husband mourns this stripping of the altars, but I know
when a hard job is not going to get any easier.
With defiance to spare I open the oven door,
attack it with a copper cloth and Barkeeper’s Friend.
With elbow grease, but mostly with rage, I scrub,
rinse and repeat until the rusty rivulets
of heat-sealed grease give way. Two days later
the skin on my hands peels off, leaving my palms both
hard and tender. They look ready for a new beginning.
But I am not at the end of anything.
My country has loaded a handcart with democracy’s
valuables and set the tracks on a path to hell.
In the coming days and weeks ICE will murder American
citizens. They send people to warehouses in the desert.
Throughout this winter, patriots play drums for hours
beneath Minneapolis hotel windows. They create underground
grocery delivery systems, knowing there is no one else
who will do these things but themselves.
I have wrangled the Christmas tree back
into its box and cried while I cleaned my oven.
So much is beyond my reach.
But I want to be someone who does the work.