The Southern Poetry Review published this poem of mine last year:




“O Come, Emmanuel,” we sing,

and call him “long-expected.”

Yet clearly his earthly parents

were taken by surprise.

No reservations at the inn,

no childbirth classes;

they swaddled him in makeshift rags

among the cows and asses.


The unexpected child

prepares his own room;

does not wait to be invited

or even knock politely;

tears apart the calendar,

inscribing every page

with the importunate demands

of newborn rage.


In his profound dependence

he conquers all,

seizing the heart’s cords

in small, potent hands.

From life’s very source,

he comes to shatter expectation,

and for that catastrophe

there is no preparation.

2 Replies to “Advent”

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