Chris Green

Christmas trees lined like war refugees, a fallen army made to stand in their greens. Cut down at the foot, on their last leg, they pull themselves up, arms raised. We drop them like wood; tied, they are driven through the streets, dragged through the door, cornered in a room, given a single blanket, only water to drink, surrounded by joy. Forced to wear a gaudy gold star, to surrender their pride, they do their best to look alive.