i traveled a river of concrete in a machine,
you traveled an ocean of air in a machine,
babies crying, inconsolably, you said
i said, eustachean tubes aren’t meant for 30,000 feet.

i am not meant for this,
neither are you,
neither are they.

not the opposite of joy
on Christmas eve
but the false pursuit of it
whatever is actually contrary to it
even if we don’t know it when we see it.
even if we refuse to know it when we see it.

if i allow myself to cry, he will see it on my face.

how many lobster tails or buffalo wings can you fit into your unhungry mouth?
how many shoes in your closet for your two uncalloused feet?
how many coins in your gabardine pockets are enough?

hardly no living beings in sight,
and i marvel.

not the opposite of marveling
on Christmas eve
but contrary to it,
whatever actually inhibits it
even if we don’t know it.
even if we refuse to know it, when we feel it.

if i allow myself to cry, he will see it on my face.

then seven geese in the sky above the highway
i imagine what they think
about the endless expanse
of this built world — concrete and steel,
they try to outfly it, searching.
i feel their desperation, exasperation.
i know that desperation, exasperation.
crossing asphalt stream after asphalt stream
there is no seed here, there is no landing here;
except for in plastic at Costco; except for the mall parking lot.

a hawk perched on a light pole
is more than hoping for a rodent,
a group of pigeons along South Cicero Avenue
is more than hoping for dropped french fries,

on Christmas eve.

if i allow myself to cry, he will see it on my face.

then, an impromptu, post-arrival breakfast with old friends
who are people,
good people, thoughtful people,
not the opposite of good or thoughtful,
but incidentally contrary to it,
whatever inhibits goodness and thought:
complacence, ignorance or calculus.

are they not also in heartache
on Christmas eve?

if i allow myself to cry, they will see it on my face.

she says it took her two days to make her dead mother’s recipe for Lithuanian Napoleon cake; she shows me some photos on her phone
more hours for their traditional, spiced cranberry drink, a “kissel”
twelve dishes in all, including two, unique homemade preparations of herring, for their family dinner,
on Christmas eve.

1,121 miles one-way pilgrimage

236 miles round-trip journey
and then some,
because i made a harmless
wrong turn

we’ve made the opposite of harmless wrong turns.
we’re on a head-on collision course
with ourselves, and there’s no else left to collide with,
on Christmas eve.

we keep driving it,
keep flying it,
anyway.
even if we don’t know it,
but, we do,

know it,

on Christmas eve.

i arrive home,
we, arrive home,
and no sooner than your boots are off,
have i beckoned you back outside to hear,
a cacophony of geese in the corn stover
the coyotes won’t be far behind, i say.
and as we turn to re-enter the house
the wild black cat is in a hurried jaunt toward me, to catch my eye in the last bit of light: telegraphing “where were you?”
and a suggestion that i might,
share some cream and sardines with her
on Christmas eve.

a great-horned owl hoos in the very next moment
and i search the three cottonwoods in the darkening sky for their silhouette, without any luck
i wonder how long this will, all, last
how long before we crash.

i pour the warmed cream into a bowl
i plate the sardines
i water the frasier fir, all alit
i give the dog a minty bone
i open a bottle of red wine
you light your Cuban cigar
we, all, imbibe.

if i allow myself to smile, you will see it on my face,

so, i do,

on Christmas eve.