The First Christmas Eve at Home

The air above my parents’ roof is cold. 
It pushes smoke back down the chimney, 
forcing me to turn off the fire alarm 
and open both windows. 
My wife and I still can’t breathe, 
so I hang a wet towel from the mantel 
next to the Christmas stockings 
my mom made for the family. 
On mine she needled ‘baby.’ 
The one she made for Kathy 
is black with soot. 

Crouched beneath the smoke, 
Kathy and I drank eggnog. 
On our hands and knees, 
we lap it up like kittens. 
She hides her hands in my hair 
and sponges my face with kisses. 
“Be soft,” she says 
when I bite her lip on the hide-a-bed. 
That night, in dreams, I stand before her, 
black with soot and tempting. 
She says all she wants is a pomegranate.