You dream of bells at dawn
on this December day
of frozen rain and
the color of wadding used
to stuff the mouths of the dead.
You dream of bells
until the actual front
door rings and pounds.
They've sung the security
guard to sleep, pushed your buzzer
and kidnapped the elevator,
these strumming, ringing
revelers dressed
in guitars and tambourines,
garlanded in orange, purple, green.
These jesters push past
the half can of warm beer left on the TV,
the pile of unfolded laundry,
the white hardened fry pan grease.
Because you're not ready for it,
today will be a party
of chicken, cakes, and wine,
of singing, racket, waking the neighbors
'til they party too,
a day when nothing
on your list gets crossed off,
a day like a child lighting
her first illicit match,
a snap of light in the hand.
These carolers assault your grief,
drag it from its bed, shake it,
and demand an explanation,
because they know
God comes, if at all,
only as surprise.
*An Hispanic Christmas tradition of caroling and parties, beginning before dawn, at the homes of unsuspecting friends, gathering people all day, meant to mimic Mary and Joseph's search for a place to stay before Jesus' birth.