In January

Christian Century, Jan 17, 2001 by Jean Janzen

   January with its thumping
   in the walls, gray stairs
   of fog that go nowhere,
   like the Winchester house--
   the wife of the gunmaker
   haunted by the dead.
   Day and night, carpenters
   hammering to keep out
   the ghosts.

   I think of Richie, my first
   love, whose gun went off
   into his heart as he
   oiled the barrel. Thirteen,
   the Kansas sky like sheet metal,
   wind in a howl.

   January's dip into vengeance.
   After the Birth, the hunting.
   Herod still alive, and Jesus
   in Egypt. His mother clutching
   him against desert storm,
   her robe flying.

   May the Lord's wrath be triggered.
   May he break their teeth,
   may he seat them at long tables
   in unheated, windowless factories.
   May they disassemble each gun
   through my sleepless nights.
   For the Child returns, his small
   hands scattering the proud
   like winter birds, laughing.