I wanted god in a manger.
This was Christmas in Kentucky--1960?61?
There were flurries in the forecast.
You could fluff him up, the god
I wanted. Stacked beneath
the aluminum tree
were gifts you could depend upon.
I was ten, eleven. I wanted god
the wise child, not god
the bad red fist of judgment.
They had vaporized an island,
the atoms had, to save us all.
I wanted god the snowflake,
shy lamb, spangled star
atop the tree.

At school we crouched to dodge the blast
that never came, but could.
Small birds were god's to mind,
and cattle knelt for him.
I watched the sky all morning,
for snow was hallelujah
escaped from hymns to shower us.
I wanted god the hay-bound boy
before he ever knew the world
or saw my soul, all briar and want,
or wrecked his heart upon it.

Max Garland is the writer-in-residence for the City of Eau Claire and a former poet laureate of the State of Wisconsin. His new book, The Word We Used for It, is now available from the Local Store and elsewhere.