For whom do we deck, prepare, groom,

charging holly to stick where tape and pins allow,

uniforming everything in the room,

last-minute shopping—never ask me how—

preparing the smörgåsbord, sifting the boiler mad,

and having one fantastic, sodden row

that questioned our marriage more than two years had,

and breaking a jar of wine on the kitchen floor:

for whom? Who was that bloody libation for?

We patch up. I patch up parcels with glue

labelled ‘For my love’ and ‘Hennes’—Swedish for ‘Hers’,

and, as the roast is not yet tender through:

‘We’ll have that swill we were saving for visitors.’

And: ‘I must,’ I nag, ‘ have a table by my chair

for the bloody ashtray. All these kempt candles, the holly, furze!’

Rawing the row: how incongruous a pair!

We squat and drink, in silence, burning, charred,

while Shepherds Abiding canticles on the Third.

Must not yet open any gift,

eat, talk, splice the playing cards, or properly mend.

Tears caution down her cheek. I too am miffed.

What—and I don’t mean the race to truck and spend,

nor tradition, in this case the Scandinavian salves

she brought with her—says such foil and green amend?

Who forced us to spend so much upon ourselves,

framed us so spruce and testy amid his lore,

making us ask what we’d contracted for?

Alan Marshfield