The holy ghost was there for his son’s birth,
I bet. My ceramic Christmas doll set
doesn’t show it— but that’s realistic
actually, since ghosts don’t usually show.
Holy ones do sometimes, given enough blood,
but this is a domestic scene:
Mary (amply-bosomed, garbed in acres
of glossy blue) is scooted up close to the man
whom we know wasn’t the real dad— Joseph,
who must’ve loved her, to sit there and smile,
to endure the gushing wisemen and shepherd’s
hamfisted backslaps, the frankincense, the myrrh,
while all the while, he could sense the other there,
stroking the glowing boy with invisible hands.