A robed figure dispels the powers fo darkness. I
enter the room awkwardly. Temporarily
blinded. Mother keeps it smaller than life,
and my mind stoops at the Church of the Nativity.
The room, whose ceiling I once vaulted,
no longer holds me. I was raised here
in spite of her. And the spite still stings.
I wonder, "Did Jesus go home for Christmas?"
A photo of the young iconoclast is suspended
over my bed. Lens magnified innocence.
There's the baseball cap that was shoved
on me to hide my brain: that growth.
On the wall is Van Gogh's Bedroom at Arles.
In it, she see the comfort of my room, but it mirrors
where I lost my little mind.
"My boy is back."