by Jean Soto
When the yuletide downpour
coated the avenue in ice, she knew
imprints would not form in frozen sleet
nor would his cherub silhouettes
be sketched in granular snow.
So she cloaked him with an heirloom quilt,
the one her father used to cloak her with,
and sat him by the Yule Log program—
The hearth will warm you, my lamb,
the wool blanket will cradle you
in its fleecy embrace,
have hot cocoa,
sit by the singing fire—
She fanned the flickering flames
by untying the window shades of the living
room. In the kitchen, she pulled
the plastic off candy canes
for sweet memories to savor
but the red spirals could only recall
loops and hoops of twinkling lights
coiling like little nooses wrapped around
fire escapes and slushy streets polluted by the sludge
of the Urbanite and Jolly Kringle is drenched
in Ginger Beer and Peppermint Schnapps
and deluges cascade down concrete tunnels
beneath their feet and could drown you.
As he sat barefoot on splintered hardwood
she dreaded the day when his fingers would finally
touch the screen and feel nothing
but glass and static.
