Elder Roberts was like Scarlett’s Ashley Wilkes,
the Church, his Melanie Hamilton.
Brad was my reluctant Rhett,
& David, the uninvited guest
who crashed the barbecue at Twelve Oaks.

As I listened to Christmas carols on the radio
or rather,
holiday songs,
being they were all about reindeer & snowmen
& all childish foolishness,
I wondered if all the songs about Jesus’s sacrifice
were really the Easter songs.

The Gillette’s house was like a Norman Rockwell painting,
their Nativity scene reminiscent
of the Willow Tree figurines Mother adored
& the Amish rag dolls I had played with as a child.
We loved faceless things,
yet if the eyes were the windows to the soul,
did that mean we loved soulless likenesses of ourselves?

I was the unspoiled dove,
Kath, the raven-in-waiting,
& Leann, the little songbird
around which the elders
hummed & buzzed
& flitted around.

Kath was their African princess,
& I,
the pallid virgin who would be sacrificed
to save one of their own.