Under the halo glow, I clasp
my hands politely, but really,
what we need
is clean swaddling bands,
fresh-baked flatbread, a few
figs. Or could they just sit by the manger
for half an hour and dazzle
his blurry newborn eyes
with the rings on their fingers
so I can take a nap in the straw?
Stars in their eyes, presenting
jeweled chests, palms upward:
The wise men who come to worship
never bring food.
–
Meg Yardley lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has recently appeared in publications including Rogue Agent, SWWIM, Bodega Magazine, Cagibi, and Women’s Review of Books.