by Mary Lynn Bahr
For Brigham
You spent an hour
thinning cotton through the branches
for Kleenex ghosts with blotted eyes
and the yarn and paper witches
who perch like blossoms
on the knuckles of your tree.
You filled the kitchen windows
with cardboard cats and pumpkins
and asked me
should you tape the extras
on the closet doors?
You sat on the linoleum
untangling strings of lights
to replace two dead bulbs.
You strung fat, blinking “V”s
between the porch rails,
wrapping cord to metal
with twist-ties. Tonight
as soon as it was dark
you asked me
should you turn them on?
