The grass has forgotten it’s supposed to die. This Christmas is coppery and a little tarnished and for once white really is an absence and not a blinding blending of everything. My ex-husband and I use a silver triangle to pull taut the springs of the trampoline my estranged mother sent unannounced as though she suspected estrangement but wouldn’t commit to either side of the silence. I won’t pretend I’m thankful and she won’t pretend I’m welcome. It’s all together before we realize it’s altogether wrong, and I know that four years ago I’d have been livid, but now I laugh and make the cocoa. We bounce and count the things we’ve bounced from: growing-up towns, Old Testament violence, marriages, mothers. We watch our daughter skirt the enclosure’s edges, imagine every future winter could be so green.

Krista Cox is a paralegal and poet based in the Midwest but longing for somewhere saltier. She’s the Managing Editor of Doubleback Review, a journal for work from defunct journals, and an Associate Poetry Editor at Stirring: A Literary Collection. She’s also the Executive Director of Lit Literary Collective, a nonprofit serving her local literary community, and chair of the board of the Feminist Humanist Alliance. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Journal, Crab Fat Magazine, Salt Hill, and elsewhere. More at