Kim GarciaWe walk in paper crowns
around the darkened rooms
led by a dinner candle.
Sprinkling the last of the holy water,
singing the last Christmas songs.
The names of the three kings
are chalked over the lintel of the front door
under a sky sparsely lit with stars.
By faith, there is one for each child born tonight
but there is too much street light to see it.
Inside again, we sit in kitchen chairs
around Baby Jesus crowned in beeswax
standing in a velvet doll's chair.
The wise men in a three part tableau
of completion: walking, standing, kneeling.
Mary twists in her graceful s-curve of yielding.
My child lies long and heavy
with his head in the crook of my arm.
He traces the outline of my face,
remakes it with sweaty fingers,
smelling of dinner.
"Pax," I want to say to such love, “Uncle,” “I give up.”
You are the immovable object, you are the irresistible force.