It’s December, the season of bells, or
as it turned out this year, the season of fire.
I’ve forgotten the salt taste that flicks
across my lips when I am cornered, and every
room has its corners these days, every
news story its splash of pomegranate
December: month of litanies,
season of vigil. The month I cross my arms
over my chest, almost involuntarily,
while praying, as if I can melt
the pure white core inside me
and send it, atom by atom, into
the mild grey sky.
The words move inefficiently, frosted
as soon as they hit the air, but I
say them anyway:
grant me the grace to desire it. It being,
ostensibly, humility, but what I really
want to want is her warm golden head
nestled against your sweatered shoulder,
and above you both, the slow year turning
to its end. We’re all looking for something
that says home and safe and loved,
after all, in this season of miracles,
or of sonnets, or of bittersweet.
Into incense: grant me the grace.