The tree expands before me

like a galaxy: an archipelago 

of red planets, a white aurora 

coiled around pine needles, 

string lights blinking in slow

patterns like remote worlds 

burning their existence

into my eyes. The thunder 

of tearing wrapping paper 

drags me back into the living

room. I smell the cheese-

stuffed chipotles baking 

in the oven, the air’s perfume

of cigar and good whiskey

breath, the forest indoors. 

It is the perfect christmas, 

yet grandma’s age-spotted hands 

struggle to cover the gaps 

in her tree:  She hangs a golden 

ribbon, knots cinnamon sticks

together, it must look whole

she says. I don’t understand 

the urge;  I like staring

into the fields of shadow

behind the holes; find

the silhouettes of dancers

or astronauts spinning 

in the dark. I bring my glass

to my mouth. The tender flame

of liquor pulsates on my tongue. 

Suddenly, a silver sphere falls 

and shatters on the parquet.

I am ashamed; I didn’t touch it, 

but I am standing so close 

to the tree I will be blamed.

I look down and notice 

the shards have scattered: 

one lurks from under 

the couch, some threaten 

to rip the lined-up gift bags 

open, and one—the largest —

has stopped at the tip of my shoe.  

I am in it, looking up 

at myself from the broken

mirror: my black hair,

a furious wave, reaches 

for the rubber of my sole. 

My chin stretches far 

from my forehead, seeking 

refuge in the tree’s shade. 

My eyes (thick as oil)

spill across the coffee table 

of my cheeks, rush to the edges 

—they want to drip,

but the shard’s inward 

ends prevent their fall.

Not a drop of eye leaves

the glass vessel. I see my face

 struggle—screech; my skin 

grows boneless  limbs—

they slide left and right, 

searching for cracks 

to leak through. The silent, 

contained scream spreads 

across my body; serrated teeth 

graze the back of my neck.

I think it’s my shirt’s tag,

but I feel stallions

dash to my wrists,

fingers, run their hooves

of winter to my nails—

unappeasable, now they are

in my pinky toe, knee-

pits, in each of the infinite 

pores hair springs from. 

I become an itch— I numb

into a half-breath stuck

between my lips, a long

suspended heartbeat. 

I become aware I am here, 

I am now, in this cage

of mirrored walls that look

into each other; millions

 of Gerardos 

— my current name —

captive, frozen 

in slightly different positions; 

to my right, I see my eyes 

leaving the shard, clocks. 

To my left, the wince 

whiskey shapes mouths into. 

In the distance I see a beard, 

a chin scar. And at the end 

of the mirror hall, a single 

black star burns—so small,

a particle of glitter. 

From where it floats,

I too must seem a particle 

of glitter. Together we are

glitter glued to an ornament.

An infinity— a constellation 

stuck in tar— I am a flare 

in space: blue, hot, unmeasurable,

aweing simply because I am— 

moments, seconds and atoms 

placed together at random,

a whole of flesh hanging

in brimming emptiness 

Then a gasp reaches me, 

my grandma’s, and the burst, 

the mirrors, they shrink 

to reveal the parquet, 

the broken ornament 

by my foot. I breathe.

My eyes leave the shard.