You—who sleep at night upon the open pavement,

on a bed shaped by rain,
with sheets stitched out of wind—
you who keep a Christmas
made of loneliness and ache,
you are my brother, friend,
you are my brother.
And you—who sleep beneath
the fever-dream of jealousy,
on a mattress of anger,
with linens kindled into flame—
you who bear a Christmas
of solitary wounds
and utter no complaint,
you are my brother, friend,
you are my brother.
Christmas falls in December,
yet it may rise in May.
Christmas may fall in September—
it comes when humankind so chooses.
Christmas is born whenever
a life begins to brighten.
Christmas is the perennial fruit
in the secret orchard of a woman’s womb.
You—who invent tenderness,
conjuring gifts out of air,
you who fashion dolls
and moonlit trains from longing,
and tell your child a gentle lie
because you cannot buy the dream—
you are my brother, friend,
you are my brother.

And you—who see in the shop window
your hunger staring back at you,
a slice of sorrow
in every festive king’s-cake,
you who lend bitterness
to every sweetness I bring home—
you are my brother, friend,
you are my brother.