Prayer at Christmas

There is no weather here in this arid place of indecision,

Only pathogens of fear, inchoate pain, erratic time and indeterminate light.

Distill from us an image of ourselves. Lead in our fathers bound and gagged

Imbue in us the executioner’s bored indifference. Hood them well and spare us empathy,

But slit the hood that they may know their slayer.

And lead us in our mothers nude and have them mince and flirt, exude their charms,

That we may shy away in tears and know them better now.

And should we ever love again,

Help us resurrect their slumped and bloody selves

In dreams and apparitions, walkabouts, and migraine lights.

Expel from here the vendors of epiphany.

Incinerate the new age tracts of spiritual bulimia,

Bestsellers of prolonging, eloign us from our endless selves

Instruct us in the ways of poverty and imperfections.

Bill Schubart, Christmas 1991