the irony of red birds
The week of joy,
wrapped up like a present and given to
the winter solstice.
What irony.
The shortest day,
the longest night,
the hardest concept.
Like red birds on snowy limbs
A crimson drop in the muffled white
Flicking here, then there
Uncatchable by a witch’s winter
Only detectable by those whose veins
run with the lions blood.
The shortest day,
the longest night,
the hardest concept.
and joy—the lightest candle, on the darkest night.
What child is this?
I don’t know. It’s too dark to tell.
And winter is full of irony.
Much like a God made man.
Much like a liberator, born in a feeding trough.
Much like snow as blanket, plaything, devastator, death.
But I am a follower of the most ironic and paradoxical religion known to man.
Follow me and I will show you that you need only to conquer yourself
As I have already conquered the world.
so you don’t have to worry about the dirt under your nails
or the poor soil you were given to plant in
I will make it all new.
I have made it new.
I am making it new.
You are new
because I am eternal.
A God that gives himself.
Rejoice!
That’s some unprecedented shit.
And so punch your fist into the air—
We have conquered the earth without even trying!
We, who wander in deserts
We, who wait on hard back chairs
We, whose hips are out of joint from wrestling
We, who get caught up in verb tenses
Have made, am making, are, was—pick one why dontcha?!
But where’s the fun in that?
Where’s the fun in knowing about tomorrow
when today has yet to break a poached egg over avocado toast?
But, hey, I’ll let you read the last page.
You can’t read the middle, but the end is a doozy.
You’ll love it.
Five stars.
Rejoice!
Because cancer can’t take away a love shared
Because dementia is temporary
And so is that avocado toast!
Enjoy it!
Hang onto the memory of love like a smiling three-toed sloth!
Feel the seemingly chasmless pain of loss
And then punch back with an immortal fist to the gums
My four year old said he would punch Satan in the nose
I said, Why stop at the nose? Let’s punch him in the gut!
The penis! he shouts
Yeah! Why not? Let’s bloody that asshole up with our hope
He can have our twisted genome, our broken families.
He can have the fentanyl crisis, and the war in middle everywhere.
We fleshy, easily offended snowflakes are eternal
And received an advanced copy of the end
And it’s ironic
Just how much joy there is
And how dying looks a lot like living forever
And doing what we were made for all along
Which was to (of course)
Rejoice.
Always,
Emily
P.S. Merry Christmas
This is one of the best pieces I’ve read in a long time.