We lift our glass shards in the dark.

Mother sets the grandfather clock to midnight.

We smile in our suits mother cut

from yellowed newspapers.

We turn on the radio, only to find out

the countdown is over,

though there’s a minute of silence

for those who didn't make it to the new year.

We try thinking up names for them, but fail

until we fall quiet on our seats,

the raw promise of meat in our mouths.

Father is off to the nearest highway

to grab us some fresh deer.

Mother worries and worries,

says it'll arrive cold,

though deep down she knows:

we still have a fire within each one of us.