Winters grow worse in
days of plague and war,
the next disaster and
the cupboards gone bare. Lights
strewn about the neighborhood
burdened by the branding—
nativity tableaux surrounded by
Santa and Frosty and Mickey Mouse—
all the claimants to that gloried throne
crowding out the senior myths
as people bemoan their quarantine
isolations in silver and gold.
A year of new names for each
full moon and incessant astrology,
the biases built into cognition—
cock crowing at midnight,
the hawk outside the window—
gathered up like torch and pitchfork
to mob the monster, like
the slings and arrows insisted by
outrageous fate while the hard
lonesome of the holidays kicks
my teeth clean down my throat.
So the old wanderers encircling
the stars intersect, gods crossing
paths to double down on
the fierce, faraway albedo alluding
Yeats stamped into our dumb tongue.
Behold! The story sold to deny
meaning, our language
littered with shiny baubles and
bright pretty lights so we never
see the world we witness.
Made up miracles,
heaven’s lies burning bright.
