The presents are wrapped and my belly’s still empty,
inconceivable. I watch, in my memory or hope, two mothers
impossibly pregnant, two mothers constant in duty,
called to grace. All mothers bear children who will someday
die. Meanwhile and after, there is life: the fig and the vine,
the foxes and the rose, the hart and birdsong. Young
bodies leaping. Let us dance around the tree and tie
doves and apples to its branches, weave promises and wishes
between needles. Let our memory serve so that Christmas
assures us death is as impermanent as the nightsky.
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