At Christmastime we stay only one night, 
and it’s a dump – burn holes in brown carpet,  
no air. We keep the window open to  
the swamp, listen to raccoons and musk rats  
pitch in the marsh as they give last fight to  
the gators’ devouring. The next three  
days we drive in separate cars three hours  
each way to get to the specialist, up  
at 4:00, highway empty and ocean black  
on both sides. We drive back after they’ve coiled  
their catheter inside me – the Advent  
promise God will not keep. On the last day,  
     we surround the nativity, your aunt  
     puts Jesus in the manger, and we sing.