Reykjavik

you, my darling, are a Christmas card

that i send my nephews—i write to them

and tell them that Santa Claus brought me

snowfall and berry trees that line cobblestone.

* * *

behind the view (i write to the boys) stands

a hill much grander than that in your grandmother's

backyard: imagine tobogganing down this

in your plastic sleds;

remember to bring your mittens when we

take up our axes and pluck an evergreen

from the softened ground—remember to say

thank you to the bounteous land.

each houselamp a tiny candle on our tree

and every little one asleep in their glow

a gift, wrapped up in quilts and tied

with their mothers' goodnight kisses.

the icy river flows as our baptismal font:

i will brave the frigid sheets to take

a sip, cleansing my soul so that i

may do your wanton innocence justice in the eyes

of God (make sure to tell your mothers

that i said that); then the churchtowers

call to us in the night, drawing us to worship

as the Magi and the Star.

* * *

for them, their uncle waits and sips

his coffee, rolls his cigarette, and waits

with his mistresses's camera, waiting for

your imminence for the Nativity.

[source]