I see this occasionally, someone reaching upward—
a vision of a vague person, one arm stretched high
as if balancing on a chair trying to place a star
on top of a seven-foot Christmas tree:
another look-what-Santa-brought-you miracle.
I’m not satisfied with reindeer tracks on the roof
or reminders of a poem I wrote my freshman year
of undergrad, titled whatever, I can’t remember
but everyone liked it the same: about an alcoholic
teenage gal, drinking brandy, crushing her porcelain doll
between her legs only to hallucinate angels in the bedroom.
She stood up and waved her arms high hoping to touch
Godlike divinity: as if I had something to say. Plagued
by her or him, provoked by discussions on the poet’s voice,
the progression of one’s style from high school to college
to MFA writing programs. I’m up for choosing ornaments
and down for caroling all night, fingering near-ceiling for
holy breath—halos—waiting on Santa’s next bag of tricks.