This is so not our job we hauled in
the Christmas tree dressed
in mom’s boots mom’s jackets

in the New York freeze, Sarah
with the meat cleaver at the trunk
knocking off stumps the both of us

sweating after the sawing second
step and even later still gloved because
This is so not our job! I’m facefirst

in the tree’s underside my hat stolen
by branches Sarah’s sweeping like a housewife
in a hat until at last the thing stands cornered

in its hoop skirt beside the fireplace
and the rug is spiked with scent
and the cat declawed