My Three Kings

A narrative Christmas poem

My Three Kings arrive dribbling in so late the heat’s been lowered to save the meal becoming

burnt offerings.

A wave, a hug, a peck on the cheek smiles that do not fully reach their eyes. Regardless, they’re welcomed.

I have a need to hold them each and every one of my Three Kings to steady my flailing heart still my welling tears.

They surrender their gifts. Packaging bright with frankincense, myrrh, and gold betraying being wrapped by other hands.

Chosen, too?

I forbid the thought to take root lean in for a brush of lips to cheek and lead the way to the glistening tree the garlanded walls the table setting

Gone to such trouble

If not this meal, which meal? What feast?

Feasts ease toasts ease words needing to be heard.

But the food is overcooked the meat dry, the sprouts soggy. Squelching. A decaying feast eaten in near silence half an eye on smartphone screens.

I don’t look up I can’t.

We thought it was two. Everyone eats at two.

I shrug and smile offering placating gestures as if I am wrong.

We’ve never eaten at two. Always one.

One, like me an outsider in my house trying too hard to ease the way for words that will not form

sickness scan surgeon

Why don’t they see my thinning hair? My lack of eyebrows? My need to talk?

Surely they see.

Knives and forks are placed quietly on half-eaten plates.

They itch for their phones to be off, to be gone.

I’ll clear. Plum pud, is it?

No.

He stills, half-risen, half reaching. They all still.

I look at each of my Three Kings.

I’ve something I need to say.