The Orthodox Church of Ukraine Reschedules Christmas
A work by Pennsylvania-based poet Dan Schall.
On Christmas Eve, my nephew confesses
what he really wants are flying cars.
Not tiny spaceships, mind you, but rockets
strapped to the fenders of crossovers.
So we can shoot, he says, over the traffic.
In Kyiv, children skate the edge of a coin-
shaped lake, ice rilled by their quavering
blades, two weeks early this year.
Mothers loll along the frozen loam,
pocketing in their cheeks
stars of anise steeped in mulled wine.
Bare-gripped, they hold their foam cups,
guessing which child cut which path,
gambling on the random day the ice
will collapse. Back in Philly,
in the dead week before New Year’s,
a manager of a big box store hangs
from rafters huge banners: 50% OFF
GET WHAT YOU REALLY WANTED
My nephew breaks from my hand,
sprints across the blue and yellow carpet,
toward the aisle filled with boxes, children
sifting through shambles of warnings
that what is within may choke.