Insinuating Revival
Lit Candles Whisper You Into Trance
Angels plug in Christmas
tree lights across the street. Baby Jesus is
a cardboard cut-out in Mary’s arms
suction cupped on your front
door. Inside, carolers bleat
predictable standards from cheap speakers
next to the fireplace and
you kneel, blowing cigarette smoke up
the chimney – you want me
to stare into your wine-glassed eyes
and speak in tongues
over the blizzard nostalgia
piles on your porch. They’ve already closed
all the schools – which one
are you from? Repentance
is in season as lit candles whisper
you into trance.
There’s no trusting all this light
as you begin to undress – I’ve seen your copperheads
twisting tails around your arms before.
I steal a candy cane from your tree
instead: it’s the only fruit here
that grows.
