Joyful and Triumphant

The cat slumbers in a nest of wrinkled tissue
wadded in a cardboard box. The foil fir
is dark. The lights strung outside knock
against the frozen rafters of the porch.
My girlfriend’s in the kitchen, gossiping with her mother

on the phone. I can’t make out the words,

just her voice’s warm murmur
until the heater bangs on and drowns her out.
I think of my own mother, forcing her heathen children
to sit around the tree and read

that hoary old nativity story  

from the onionskin pages of her Good News Bible

before we could unwrap our gifts.
Distracted shepherds letting their flocks wander,

senile old men mistaking retinal detachment for stars.
We’d recite the testimony of those unreliable narrators 

in funny voices to spite her, to celebrate
the triumph of the cynical over the faithful.
Now, years later, the thrill of victory has faded.

The candle is bright, but does not provide enough warmth

to drive the chill from my hands.

I call my mother’s voice mail, leave a message.

No doubt she’s out at midnight mass. 

The cat doesn’t bother to look up from its cradle

as I rise and cross the room

and, for what little good it will do,

plug in the tiny lights of the tree.