When My Lenses Fog

by JONATHAN DOWER

I’m reminded of tamales 
steaming from the kitchen 
into the living room, children 
chasing each other playing 
tag running into the kitchen 
where they are turned away 
by mothers sharing tips on 
cooking and parenting. Away 
are the fathers with a beer
in the living room grunting 
about work and playing 
baraja after christmas dinner.

A faux-leather italian coat 
over my button-up and hand-
me-down jeans. Big, crocodile
boots that sink me down to Earth. 
My mother’s perfume lingers in 
the living room as I wait for them 
to get ready. A quiet forgiveness 
amongst my brothers today,
the 24th: It’s family christmas and 
tomorrow is gift christmas.

It’s a blur now. I don’t remember 
the christmas we had the year 
my dad got deported or the 
christmas after my mom passed 
away. I don’t remember the gifts, 
the wrapping, or the singing.

The body remembers.

When I see snow, I grab 
my heaviest coat to feel 
a hug as I walk alone. 

When I hear singing, I hum 
to myself in my own key 
as I walk alone.
When I think of christmas,
I write and think about poems 
as I walk alone.

When I heard more about 
sightings and raids, I knew 
there’d be more families 
who’d spend christmas 
alone. And hey, I haven’t 
found the answer to spending 
christmas alone, but I still 
hug, hum, and write.

It’s all I can really ask for.