by Joan Pond
I look for a sign.
If I could see His footprints,
or some honest to God relics,
like a lock of His hair
or the ring He wore.
If the LaBrae Tar pit were filled
with haloes and harps
I could believe.
If there was a place like Graceland
where I could
touch His bathrobe and bedroom slippers,
wouldn’t have to be
A Graceland ChristmasAs Paul held me near,
an artificial tree limb poked me in the back.
I’d be impaled by a pagan symbol
on December twenty-third
and I wouldn’t get to open my gifts.
Then I wondered
if I looked as uncomfortable
as I felt.
My skirt was riding up my legs,
stockings were bunched at my knees.
My blouse was wrinkled
and the limb from the tree
could puncture a lung.
I glanced at our reflection in the window.
Two middle-aged frumps,
clinging to each other.
And as the red lights on the tree flickered,
I knew this would be another blue,
Zero HourI knew the stars by name,
for my father and I
had charted the heavens.
Canis Major and Carina,
Auriga and Centaurus.
they would exhaust
becoming so dense,
not even light would escape.
They’d collapse under their weight,
and the fate of new stars
would be determined.
from an amalgam
of hydrogen and helium.
A new universe
Copyright © 1998 by Joan Pond, All rights reserved
Contact Joan at firstname.lastname@example.org