She doesn’t bring things
that couldn’t accrue to other crises,
such as hands holding bouquets
or a shepherd’s staff made only of E’s.
The sound of my temple beating
against the pillow I once thought
was m’eyelash, though I couldn’t prove it.
Even when I went stiff
I could not escape the sound
of my pulse licking the hay.
And yet it still amazes my parents
each December when I tell them
I don’t want to rehearse
the nativity scene anymore.
The Writing of John B. Randall 