[…]


Victor Camillo

Watching Jesus.  December 26, 2004


I am the ghost that is the writing shadow of my right hand.
All Christmas season I’ve been watching Jesus come to TV.
The history of God also; Moses.

Tonight I drove out to my coffee shop into the nativity of January.
Coming home I got stuck looking at the brow of my back door steps,
Soft slight snow was growing down to the hard ground
Next to my trash cans.  My alley ran to nearby railroad tracks,
My dog walked indoors, wanting me.  The latches were locked.
I was without my pocket lost key, seeking, and the weather called.
The dog came over to my entrance way kitchen half couch,
The winter was born over and over in those moments.
Now remembering now easily my key seeking fingertip freezes,
I understand in a simple way how my friends want Jesus.

Later into this history a Tsunami came through the broken heart of the Indian Ocean,
Defining fishermen into fish, tourists into tadpoles, buses into tombs.
This I noticed as TV channel selections.
Then I remembered our potluck Christmas yesterday of wild veggie chick patties,
Cranberries and orange slice sauce; chocolate and ridiculous red wine
Thawed from a since Summer hibernation on a porch.

How are birds warmed?  Earthworms preserved?  Tires not shattered?
By the temperature crawling under and under itself.
My sweet friend Sunder I saw last on a going home bus.
His smile smiling itself, to India tomorrow, today between earmuffs.
Now the tsunami repeating BBC calls from Madras where Sunder has gone,
Last seen by this guy on our separate ways home.

I’m Tsunami sick and Jesus freaked.
No god talks, and because of the cold no redeeming bird speaks.

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