We mustn’t laugh.
O Holy Night,
when year after year
the unholy octave looms,
then tanks as a warbling
soloist, who has only just rushed to
the church after setting out soup
and Christmas Eve charcuterie,
with a long night of wrapping
still ahead, straightens her robe
smooths her hair, steps
forward with the organist
playing in a key a third
higher that neither
realizes won’t be
quite as di-VINE
as it went during
rehearsal when they’d
worked out the transposition.
We are somber and sweating
clasping hands in our
tiny white Anglican church,
the six of us in a row with
our mother side-eyeing us
head bowed, our father,
relaxed and tone deaf-
until her shoulders begin
to shake and all bets are
off. We may never make
fun of someone else’s
mistakes, but mouth
breathing our collective silent
laughter wobbles the
entire pew, draws
frowns anyway.
In that way she’s
genius at brushing off
our family humiliations,
we leave the church, flying into
the December air like
chimney swifts rising at dusk.
My sister and I pull at our
sagging panty hose and just
want to put on our pajamas and kick
back under the tree lights.
In the car on the crowded
ride home she says “You know
kids, every birthday party needs
a little levity. I’m sure no one
even noticed us. ”
Early Morning Poems 