The Bulbs That Blind Them Poem by Mary Nagy

Maybe it's the way the elf
is grinning...
Maybe it's the way Mrs. Claus
seems to know something I don't.
Christmas always has an aura of mystery
and a tinge of sadness.
It could be the way the bulbs
hang from the tree and effortlessly
reflect a twisted, distorted view of myself
as I search the branches for
the bulbs that may mean something...
anything,
to someone.
No matter how I turn,
I can't get away
from the carnival-mirror-like image
hiding between the strands of garland.
She mocks me
as I look at the homemade bulb
with glitter letters
that says ''Mothers Make Memories''.
I wonder if every Christmas tree
holds within it
the bulbs that blind them.