Six Poems for Advent and Christmas

Shrine at Christmastime

A tree in my neighborhood

serves as memorial shrine;
two years ago, ribbons and stuffed toys
nestled at its base. Later, vodka bottles.
Out of respect, I pulled the dogs away,
sent bits of prayer for the woman or boy,
the man or toddler gunned down
or killed in the crash.

More recent months found it empty.

Time heals or, more likely, wears away.
But this week, a new totem:
One large dolphin, all silver plush,
store tags intact. It hangs, head down,
its tail fin nailed to the tree.
I don’t know if this victim is old or new.

Maybe a bare winter oak calls out

the long sadness; maybe Christmas shopping
was rent by a sudden memory.
As for me, who must bear witness,
Advent proclaims the Child but
cries of children who, unnaturally still,
leave their toys perpetually new.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

  Before Annunciation

Just before snow covers,
it reveals. In the gloom and gray
appear the bright veins of stone
and rippled bark, the sharp character
of shingles, street signs, forgotten toys
and paper bags. As if the interior
of everything has grown outward,
adorning itself in fine lace.

I like to think that, before the great angel

pronounced and the Holy Spirit overwhelmed,
the girl Mary had a moment—or perhaps years—
of revelatory and incidental wonders,
and even that morning, taking her breakfast,
she said something startling, and her dreams glistened
upon the outlines of face, shoulders, hips, and feet;
and something gusted through the room,
hinting of chill and snowflakes.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright
 

Mary’s Mom

I’d like to know if you noticed anything different

about your daughter. On a particular day, did she seem pale
or out of breath? Was she weepy? Did you have to tell her things twice?
When the truth came out, did you agonize that she had not
confided in you? Did you tell her father, or did she?
And—be honest—when you, being the mother, being a woman—
understood the situation, didn’t you enjoy some moments
of sheer satisfaction? Didn’t you say to God, one eyebrow arched,
“You couldn’t have picked a better one”?
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Gabriel

How much did you have to shrink

before entering the house?
How much shine did you rub off
before she could see you?
Did you carry the plan like a secret fire in the heart,
knowing that such information could cause
a whole new rebellion up there?
And when the girl said yes, how much
did you ache to grow legs and lungs and
a head of hair, just to know the sensation
of your spirit breaking open?
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Liturgy

Later I will choose ornaments

and dig out the holiday tea towels.
But now the cross is carried aloft from the nave
to the font to the table to its place near the lectern,
and we sing words almost too old for connection.
The vestments are shot through with greens and purples;
the cup and candlesticks glimmer. Such tones ring
uncomfortably deep, into memories bright and dark,
into twists of theology and the crowded dreams
of a conflicted race—that’s us,
hoping for heaven while the cookies bake,
praying our rosaries of unraveled lights and bells.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Star

People who often traveled this road noticed

how familiar shadows had sharpened, cast upon
the ground by some fresh brightness in the night.
Halting, they identified the frightful star.
Jabbing fingers upward, voices tight,
they murmured debates about the meaning of it.
But nothing had changed; the road remained the road.
Their lives passed by beneath their feet,
moving forever in the same direction—only now,
across their bent necks, a band of warmth,
a deep hum that would not leave.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright