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{"title":"哦,圣夜","authors":"Thea Matthews","doi":"10.1353/mar.2023.a907325","DOIUrl":null,"url":null,"abstract":"O Holy Night Thea Matthews (bio) Keywords poetry, Thea Matthews, stars, violence, blood, murder, singing, music, love, weapons, death, war, cameras, race, America Stars brim with valor. Murder. My jaws lock to the current— this hymn without nation beyond sundown in oilof marching polyester. To be a star, a star of valor, one must kill. Teeth marks are found in the back of a cop car.Cymbals clang on too-hot grits. My mental chatter is at the speed of rabbits thumping.Asphalt tapes the blood spill. A gold tooth crater smiles into a blow. The blow is the lingering smoke of a body leftunrecognizable. A rollercoaster of adrenaline shines brightthe red pollock splatter.The high of it might even entice you too,to just shoot. Or, you might lose your mind in a padded room,pull whatever is left into the air until you hear the angels sing. Try hiding the Gospelbehind a prison no one sees. Listen to another eulogy on a megaphone. I want to take another walk, walk on fallen sheet music ina jury room, walk through its walls. [End Page 92] Am I no one anymore? Still,tell me I’m loved.A shot of cognac takes another drag from his cigarette.Rats rummage through garbage bags. I play hopscotch with other ghosts until I lose track of time.The clatter of crack pipes haunts a little girl’s dreams. Lovebecomes elusive. I swear, I’m hearing bullets right now. We sing with horns, grinding teeth, dead doves.Fatherless,on crushed olive branches, war is wrapped in sewn skin warlives inside my mindwar is right outside my gate. Red silk cops every Glock. Diamonds nestle in between bail bonds. I glide through shut doors as eagles shove themselvesinto bricks. Cameras cannot watch where my mind goes. Waves of black curls glisten by feet dangling high off sermons. Black hands pinned to oak.Cotton made the allegiance. Who claims the body? Body cameras protect themselves. What am I left with? My mother’s plasma thickens on top of congressional bills. [End Page 93] Thea Matthews thea matthews is a poet and educator of African and Indigenous Mexican descent from San Francisco, California. She holds an MFA in poetry from New York University and a BA in sociology from UC Berkeley. Her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, Epiphany Magazine, Obsidian Lit & Arts in the African Diaspora, Alta Journal, On the Seawall, The Cortland Review, The New Republic, and others. She was nominated for Best New Poets in 2022 and Best of the Net in 2021. Her first book, Unearth [The Flowers], was published in 2020, and was listed as part of Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Poetry of 2020. Copyright © 2023 The Massachusetts Review, Inc","PeriodicalId":43806,"journal":{"name":"MASSACHUSETTS REVIEW","volume":"129 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.1000,"publicationDate":"2023-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":"0","resultStr":"{\"title\":\"O Holy Night\",\"authors\":\"Thea Matthews\",\"doi\":\"10.1353/mar.2023.a907325\",\"DOIUrl\":null,\"url\":null,\"abstract\":\"O Holy Night Thea Matthews (bio) Keywords poetry, Thea Matthews, stars, violence, blood, murder, singing, music, love, weapons, death, war, cameras, race, America Stars brim with valor. Murder. My jaws lock to the current— this hymn without nation beyond sundown in oilof marching polyester. To be a star, a star of valor, one must kill. Teeth marks are found in the back of a cop car.Cymbals clang on too-hot grits. My mental chatter is at the speed of rabbits thumping.Asphalt tapes the blood spill. A gold tooth crater smiles into a blow. The blow is the lingering smoke of a body leftunrecognizable. A rollercoaster of adrenaline shines brightthe red pollock splatter.The high of it might even entice you too,to just shoot. Or, you might lose your mind in a padded room,pull whatever is left into the air until you hear the angels sing. Try hiding the Gospelbehind a prison no one sees. Listen to another eulogy on a megaphone. I want to take another walk, walk on fallen sheet music ina jury room, walk through its walls. [End Page 92] Am I no one anymore? Still,tell me I’m loved.A shot of cognac takes another drag from his cigarette.Rats rummage through garbage bags. I play hopscotch with other ghosts until I lose track of time.The clatter of crack pipes haunts a little girl’s dreams. Lovebecomes elusive. I swear, I’m hearing bullets right now. We sing with horns, grinding teeth, dead doves.Fatherless,on crushed olive branches, war is wrapped in sewn skin warlives inside my mindwar is right outside my gate. Red silk cops every Glock. Diamonds nestle in between bail bonds. I glide through shut doors as eagles shove themselvesinto bricks. Cameras cannot watch where my mind goes. Waves of black curls glisten by feet dangling high off sermons. Black hands pinned to oak.Cotton made the allegiance. Who claims the body? Body cameras protect themselves. What am I left with? My mother’s plasma thickens on top of congressional bills. [End Page 93] Thea Matthews thea matthews is a poet and educator of African and Indigenous Mexican descent from San Francisco, California. She holds an MFA in poetry from New York University and a BA in sociology from UC Berkeley. Her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, Epiphany Magazine, Obsidian Lit & Arts in the African Diaspora, Alta Journal, On the Seawall, The Cortland Review, The New Republic, and others. She was nominated for Best New Poets in 2022 and Best of the Net in 2021. Her first book, Unearth [The Flowers], was published in 2020, and was listed as part of Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Poetry of 2020. 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O Holy Night
O Holy Night Thea Matthews (bio) Keywords poetry, Thea Matthews, stars, violence, blood, murder, singing, music, love, weapons, death, war, cameras, race, America Stars brim with valor. Murder. My jaws lock to the current— this hymn without nation beyond sundown in oilof marching polyester. To be a star, a star of valor, one must kill. Teeth marks are found in the back of a cop car.Cymbals clang on too-hot grits. My mental chatter is at the speed of rabbits thumping.Asphalt tapes the blood spill. A gold tooth crater smiles into a blow. The blow is the lingering smoke of a body leftunrecognizable. A rollercoaster of adrenaline shines brightthe red pollock splatter.The high of it might even entice you too,to just shoot. Or, you might lose your mind in a padded room,pull whatever is left into the air until you hear the angels sing. Try hiding the Gospelbehind a prison no one sees. Listen to another eulogy on a megaphone. I want to take another walk, walk on fallen sheet music ina jury room, walk through its walls. [End Page 92] Am I no one anymore? Still,tell me I’m loved.A shot of cognac takes another drag from his cigarette.Rats rummage through garbage bags. I play hopscotch with other ghosts until I lose track of time.The clatter of crack pipes haunts a little girl’s dreams. Lovebecomes elusive. I swear, I’m hearing bullets right now. We sing with horns, grinding teeth, dead doves.Fatherless,on crushed olive branches, war is wrapped in sewn skin warlives inside my mindwar is right outside my gate. Red silk cops every Glock. Diamonds nestle in between bail bonds. I glide through shut doors as eagles shove themselvesinto bricks. Cameras cannot watch where my mind goes. Waves of black curls glisten by feet dangling high off sermons. Black hands pinned to oak.Cotton made the allegiance. Who claims the body? Body cameras protect themselves. What am I left with? My mother’s plasma thickens on top of congressional bills. [End Page 93] Thea Matthews thea matthews is a poet and educator of African and Indigenous Mexican descent from San Francisco, California. She holds an MFA in poetry from New York University and a BA in sociology from UC Berkeley. Her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming in The Massachusetts Review, Epiphany Magazine, Obsidian Lit & Arts in the African Diaspora, Alta Journal, On the Seawall, The Cortland Review, The New Republic, and others. She was nominated for Best New Poets in 2022 and Best of the Net in 2021. Her first book, Unearth [The Flowers], was published in 2020, and was listed as part of Kirkus Reviews’ Best Indie Poetry of 2020. Copyright © 2023 The Massachusetts Review, Inc