The news is worse than usual
blank-faced, she hangs up
her sodden raincoat, sits in your lap
through the wisps of your limbs unfelt
says little her voice small, distant
heard in your mind as in an empty room
an open room with walls folded out
onto a broad prairie in moonlight
spinning just perceptibly
faster and erratic when noticed
shepherds and Magi appear
dozens of your younger selves among them
some no more than a dream-minute younger
crowding you with their camels and sheep
with their cherished truth-gifts
wrapped in watchfulness
you feel their eyes on your shadow body
their look is meat and wine
you feel someone not quite yourself
but welcome flow into what might have been you
an airplane leaving with no sound
a fate once dreaded now welcome.
She’d said something about gifts and passages.
Don Brandis is a retired healthcare worker living in Maltby, a small incorporated area north of Seattle. He lives quietly, tending his fruit trees and garden. Don reads and writes while his wife teaches piano. He's had a few poems published mostly online.
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