Advent

Neat in my red scarf, white shirt, 
navy skirt for Assembly Day, 
I’m the only kid whose grandmother 
died last night.  I’m pretty sure. 
Early December, and I mump and mime 
the words to carols with a dry, 
understated mouth, without 
conviction, with no joy, no greed 
for Santa and the rest. 
The weight of something new sits 
darkly on my chest, fingers my windpipe, 
lingers where my voice should be. 
I’m a barren winter tree, leafless.

Someday I’ll ride this through 
to the other side of grief, 
but now I’m waiting, tapping 
time with one foot on the floor, 
keeping my head up so no one can see. 
The days grow short to Christmas; 
that baby who’ll be born is me, 
sliding out of the world’s rank sorrow 
like last summer’s fruit, a walnut 
dropped by the roadside, windfall 
in the world’s fraught landscape. 
Lucky break.  Everything hurts 
and promises so much—everyone 
singing, the sky’s bleak gray, 
rhythm pulsing with no letup 
and nowhere to hide. 
Something to hope for; 
nothing yet to say.