It began like everything gone wrong
that goes right—the deft tug of cord
that plugged his body into the manger,
lifting of his hollow frame from his sleep—
You and I, barely able to breathe
through smothered laughter as we tipsy thieves
wrapped the baby in my sweatshirt. It was the perfect
crime. We left the nativity and Mary’s virginity
intact; left the Wise Men to leer and long
for a glimpse of her breast.
We freed the child actor from a troubled
life of waking up next to strange
priests; rubbing the last smatterings
of coke into his gums. Wondering where his life
had gone, making a career of dying.
I’d be pissed too, I said, and slid the infant
down the playground slide. You gave him a spin
on the carousel swing. Finally, we left him
at the top of the slide to contemplate the world,
which let’s face it, my lord, wrong hole—
Back at my house, you confessed
as a boy, you’d put on your mother’s oversized
dress, and she’d chuckle. Your father would say, let’s
not encourage this. Because every kid deserves
a second chance to be wrenched free
from his tether, and set into a night,
you said, do me up; I want to shine. I winged
your eyes with liner. Made your lips
bright melon and wrapped your hips in a thrift
store dress. You were all lit up—a child,
a woman, a man, a god, done up in drag and placed
on high, where you could finally be seen.