Christmas in my church

My Grandpa gives away used books for Christmas

He buys them, reads them, wraps them

Writes his names on the paper

Along with a short

review

 

My Aunt

Cant handle the anxiety

of Christmas so she eats a series 

Of pills and then sits on the couch with fish eyes

 

My other aunt runs around

Doing everything for everyone

She cooks, she cleans, and then 

prepares dessert

 

My brother comes late

And leaves early

 

My father gives everyone a hard time

And bitches about the food.

 

My cousins smoke weed

in the attic and my

Grandma is

Dead

 

I sit by the tree drinking

And wondering about the parts

of life that have nothing to do with all of it.

 

I think of

far away

things

 

Like crystal chandeliers with red vine roses

growing from them in the towering foyer

of the church of the earth that

I have constructed

In my mind.

 

There is an old woman

With soft hands and patience

who waters the flowers in the first

light of the day as the whole world opens its eyes

 

There are stained glass windows

Picturing birds in as many

colors As there

are stars

 

There is no alter

And there are no books

Songs come from the many kinds of rain

And the church has

no word for

prayer

 

The floor is made of sand 

The ceiling of grass and

the walls of smooth

river stone 

 

In this place its Christmas every sunday

and no one ever leaves

when they die.