Nativity by Franz Wright

Nativity

At the conclusion of nine months’

silent communion,

interrupted on occasion

by long one-sided conversations

of a teary and somewhat excessively candid nature,

and after some very loud mutual screaming,

the two were at last introduced. A shadow

as of vast wings passed across them,

in a manner of speaking: he slept, the

small bud of face unclenched. Later on,

still drowsing, he was relatively certain

he had at some point overheard her claim

that while nursing he never stopped staring

into her eyes, which was fair enough; but

when she added that she felt like she was being judged,

right away he sensed things getting out of hand.

That night he lay awake pondering

the matter for many hours, compelled at last

to find her accusation jejune, massively

unsubstantiated, unwitnessed by anyone

but the accuser, pathetically, and tinged with paranoia—

not a trait, incidentally, you are happy to see

in the person with whom you’ll be sharing the next couple decades.

I have done no such thing, he concluded.

In addition, while she remained perfectly free

to fall in line with the mores and laws handed down

by the sheep who exist, his own adamant intent was

to go on waiting for word from his god, who did not.

And, he muttered irritably, “I want a harmonica.”