Loading...
Loading...
Click here if you don’t see subscription options
James Matthew WilsonDecember 14, 2018

Struck by the stench of whiskey-soured vagrants
As I pass through the station vestibule
And see their metal carts stuffed full of tattered
And wind-whipped plastic bags, their potted bellies,
It’s hard to accept that we are called to praise.
What shout of joy amid such poverty?
The drained mouth of a flask gapes in its corner.

Not far from here, the body of a girl
Leans over fresh pricked flesh, slumps, then contracts
On the snow-dusted field outside the library.
They’ll find her later, limbs already cold,
While others find starved children in a basement,
The father’s mug shot blank-stared, hollow-cheeked.
After the bang, cries sift up over Mosul.

Remembering some unsated ache, we grow
Indignant that we’re not just called to praise,
But ordered: Every knee must bend to stone
At the sound of his name. O, how can we,
Seeing the withered husks that crowd the camps,
The bulging eyes that peer from scoured sockets,
Because, it seems, there’s nothing to be done?

Because amid the crash of bombs, a wedding
Has taken place inside a broken courtyard.
Because a woman in a wheelchair, legs
Bird-like and folded underneath her lap-robe,
Presses a string of beads in mumbled prayer.
Because a square of butter gives itself
Away in runnels through the mashed potatoes.

My daughter, not yet three, once chanced to run
Into a room where young Dominican
Nuns sat, upright and pale, with faces laughing.
As she rushed past, a sister swept her up
In one great motion of her vast white habit,
Enfolding her, an hour, with placid love
Wherein she rested, object of sweet praise.

Amid impoverishment, a plenitude,
A verdant weight of odd abundance, comes,
Like heavy glass bulbs on a Christmas tree,
Their blue and red and gold hung at the limit
Of metal hooks, the fir’s unruly needles
Bending with the encumbrance; and, beneath,
The ribboned boxes keep their generous counsel.

Yes, all these things present themselves, will cleave
Us with their differences, as if one world
Rebuked the other by its gaudy show.
But no. It is the bared branch that buds green,
The soon-to-be-pierced hand that heals the ear,
The night frost now receives the infant’s cry,
And a poor belly sits down to its feast.

More: Christmas
Comments are automatically closed two weeks after an article's initial publication. See our comments policy for more.

The latest from america

So many mourners lined up to see Pope Francis lying in state in a simple wooden coffin inside St. Peter’s Basilica that the Vatican kept the doors open all night.
Gerard O’ConnellApril 24, 2025
A church that dialogues is “much more interesting than a church where things fall from up high,” Jesuit Father Arturo Sosa, superior general of the Jesuits, said.
Pope Francis releases a dove outside the Basilica of St. Nicholas after meeting with the leaders of Christian churches in Bari, Italy, July 7. The pope met Christian leaders for an ecumenical day of prayer for peace in the Middle East. Pope Francis, formerly Argentine Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, died April 21, 2025, at age 88. (CNS photo/Paul Haring)
The pope’s attention to migration and climate change were well known, but the pope was also attentive to a number of other global issues and challenges like nuclear disarmament, tax justice, development, and the rise of autonomous (A.I.) weapons systems.
Kevin ClarkeApril 24, 2025
The canonization Mass for the first “millennial saint,” originally scheduled for this Sunday, has been delayed indefinitely.
Connor HartiganApril 24, 2025