christmas miracles do happen:
not if you’re a poor, mixed-
race kid living in Van Nuys,
but if you're Bart, Tiny Tim

Charlie Brown or the Smurfs -
even then it doesn't mean winning
a bet on a greyhound. it means
taking home the dog who ​lost

for the last time​. miracles don't mean
presents under the tree, miracles
lick Lisa's cheek with a warm, thick
tongue. miracles are a parking lot

scattered in lost bets, a dog running
into Homer's arms. like Homer,
my mom gets no holiday bonus,
no surprises for me, only a trip

to JCPenney for my school uniform.
we are not the Flanders, with a pile
of presents & a lit-up house. not like
the Simpsons, no miracles happened

for us, no Santa's Little Helper
dashing through the door, no father
& child bonding at a race track. only
chinese take-out & mom popping pills.

we watch the Simpson's Christmas
Special, crawling eyes reach
for the screen, desiring number fifty-
six blue hair or four fingers, longing

for a happy ending of kisses & smiles
but the credits flash yellow on black,
fantasy snaps shut, eyes curdle. at night,
I chop off a finger, hoping I wake up

wearing yellow skin & a red dress.

Karo Ska is a femme/non-binary poet of color, living in occupied Tongva Land with her black cat muse. She hopes to threaten the status quo and build towards an anti-authoritarian, autonomous world. She will be releasing her first chapbook soon! Give her a follow on twitter @karo_ska