He broke our hearts
bringing home an aluminum tree
with its own light bulb
and cellophane color wheel
that turned and lit
those tinfoil branches
blue and red and green-
so proud, he said
you didn’t need
ornaments.

We couldn’t smile.
We wanted a real tree
that would smell like pine
and drop real needles
on the artificial snow.
Even our old
skinny wire and papery green
fake tree would have been better.
There was so much space
between those flimsy branches
to hang the glittering
almost weightless
glass-fragile balls,
room to twist the lights
and carefully place the icicles.

Set between the mirror
and the window
it sang and echoed light
real and reflected
so much more beautiful
than it ever should have been.
                        

Some risks are irresistible
and even when warned
you find yourself
like Lot’s wife
looking over your shoulder
into the fiery cataclysm
behind you.
One more thing, 
like Medusa’s face
too terrible to see,
turning you to salt,
to stone, stopping you
dead, unable to escape
memories poisonous as air
hissing with regret
and the hot radioactive glow
of shame, with its long half-life
and its power to deform
all that follows-
every step, every act,
hobbled by the drag
of what you dared
to resurrect.