• On Her Christmas Manger

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    1. Her Noche Buena
    Did you wake up for Noche Buena?*
    Lit the balled candle on the belen?*
    Do you still put those candles away
    for another Pascua de los muertos?*

    I can almost see you cranking open
    the heavy lid of that narra trunk
    at the foot of your bed where his
    picture stands sentry while you sleep.

    How long did it take you this time
    to rearrange the animals around
    the manger? Reposition, you’d say
    but they’re always in the same place.

    The lamb snuggles closest to the box
    you stuff with dried grass for hay,
    the ass farthest, the horse between.
    Why? I would always ask while I,

    insolent tot, handed you the wrong
    fauna at a time. You would laugh
    at how San Jose landed on your palm
    when you asked for the donkey, an

    angel when you yelled for a shepherd,
    a magus when you barked for a burro,
    and on and on until you’d pitch me
    the hard-packed ball of saved candle

    drips from father’s grave on the one
    other fiesta you’d get up from sick bed
    for—but Noche Buena is a rare treat:
    you’d eat pan de sal, a whole banana.

    2. Her Belen de Pascua
    “Para mi fuerza, para mi belen de pascua,”*
    you would sheepishly explain an appetite
    we plead for each day you’d remember
    father building the manger with you long
    after he had the last laugh when, like me,
    he would give the dingiest animal figure
    instead of a king, a shepherd, or an angel,
    and simply did not get up from a crumple
    laughing at you when you threw him
    back the make-believe cow dung, manure
    for the grand project of a straw stable
    that father said was wrong: it was a hole
    in the city of Petra in that Bethlehem hill,
    and there were no inns to take Him in.
    You buried him with that Belen de Pascua,*
    Mother, and could not quite remake one
    you would delight describing to a devil’s
    detail to polite and knowing neighbours,
    who would drop by to gawk at your porch
    where the only clay image in its right place
    was the baby in the manger whose name
    you kept on muttering was father’s name.
    On nights like this, I scare myself, Mother,
    with the spectre of the quiet distance.

    *Noche Buena, Christmas Eve; belen, Christmas manger; Pascua de los muertos, Feast of the Beloved Departed; Para me fuerza, para mi belen de Pascua, for my strength, to build my Christmas manger.

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