Baby Jesus

On Christmas

Hauntings come in whispers
glow
My home, my holy sacred recognition that
Being born to a world that is this sick must hurt-- I know and I am sorry and grateful
And though I can no longer claim to be apologetic for being born how I was made, yeah, flawed or broken from the beginning I cannot
say I am Sorry for Being Who I Was Made
but

I am haunted by the remnants of your Holiness, you are always just around the corner leaving the air warmer
every day I stop after
examining mirrors of people, the stumbling kindnesses, her lips- and thank you dear God thank you for what you have made.

Maybe I do not kneel, but my arms are on the ground and my face is in the dust and I have not forgotten the promises I made You in a marketplace

I wonder, oh, Love;

If it slipped through the heavens somehow, the joy and electricity and ache I have for reflections of your Gentleness given out like change and crumbs to a world gasping thirsting starving for Holiness

I make my heart slow down to notice, but the Noticing is paralyzing and I am overwhelmed by
the Ghost of your Holiness
I am haunted by your Sacredness

I cannot breathe and I am parched and I am hungry.