St. Nicholas Day

for friends in Marfa, December 2004

Her broken body, torn through with disaster—

hurricanes of disease—wallowed through December,

neighbors delivering casseroles and breads,

delivering clean laundry and bedside

stories. That year, she’d no sense of advent—

her body, present and pained and now, was the only

earth she knew, though in her desperation, like gold,

the townspeople’s gifts, her chimney, fat and full,

a chute through which a not-yet-known saint, and Savior, fell through.

According to Your Word

The poet has nothing,

mouth hanging open, staring at the trees,

lit with late autumn—seventy shades of yellow.

Words are empty, too small to contain the awe of advent.

Mary said yes, said, let it be to me.

The poet holds that small word in her mouth,

wondering what it might be to be

approached by an angel. She has no words,

angel—she’s waiting, her hands wringing

wet cloth, accordingly, and wearing

December’s early sun.