I found the meaning of life in a Christmas tree when I was five.
It grew from a sprout strung to a picket.
On its birth minute we took an axe to it.
Over the month of December, I watched it decay in our living room,
tied up with strands of lights, decorated with glass testicles.
Its leaves stiff, littered about our carpet. We vacuumed up the dead.
On the 26th, we untied it. It let out a sigh, and we pulled the bowl from its mouth,
buried it underneath the emptied coffins of gifts.
Larry Eby writes from Southern California where he plans to earn his MFA in Poetry from CSUSB. His work has recently appeared in the Sand Canyon Review, Coachella Review, Inlandia, Welter, Badlands, Aperçus Quarterly, The Redlands Review, and Call of the Wild: Being Human, as well as others. He is an active member of PoetrIE, an Inland Empire based literary community, and owner of an independent press.