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Last Christmas by Rana Bitar

Last Christmas Can someone tell that pine tree, lying behind the gate over a bed of fading grass and no pillow, —trunk naked, bark flacking, head tilted, the pebbles in her throat suffocating the green of her face, and letting the yellow slither in like a poison to take hold— Can someone tell that pine tree, thrown in the yard since December That there will be no waking up to hundreds more years, or to cuddling in cones and witnessing with pride their giving away seeds or their serotiny; that the whiffs of cinnamon and candles burning are fleeting from her needles, and that there will be no next Christmas for her; that she won’t stand tall, for her hundreds extended palms to hold jewelry and smiles, and to gloat—glitters spread over the thread of memories dangling from her fingers. Can someone tell that tree not to wait; That there will be no next Christmas coming for her or going to her; That the evergreen is never again.

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