the manger was a disguised casket
the wise men, mourners yet to come
he was a dead man at birth
bearing sorrows in a broken heart
when he cried that dawn
as all babies do unless stillborn
it was of the spear-thrust approaching
it was the thorn-crown
the shepherds saw not a hood
the smooth baby was already tattered
man of sorrows was the name
acquainted with grief at birth
with no comeliness to love him
carried in a mother’s bosom
you saw a child or a bleeding man?
look again and be foresighted
as you bend to pay magi homage
do you smell baby tacuum—
or sniff sweat and blood?
we gather to feast at his interment
erroneous for the eighth-day outdooring
and sing dirges mistaken for carols
looking at it this way
all our senses summoned
a better perspective we regain