If the Divine chose to return
to earth today, they would be pleased
to know we had evolved our pronouns
to accommodate a non-binary soul. That old
pastoral manger scene wouldn’t resonate
so well; they would likely choose
to enter the world in a dimly-lit corner
of a parking garage, maybe some scavenged
cardboard propped up for privacy,
their first wails as Love Made Manifest
echoing off the concrete. They would still
be brown-skinned, perhaps a shade or two
deeper than before. Their parents would still
be scared kids, the empire still beginning
to crumble from the border inward,
the priestly class still scrubbing
their own pasty hands of sin. If
there were gifts, they would be shoddy
knock-offs dropped off the back
of an Amazon truck, and the myrrh
might be laced with Fentanyl,
still a bitter perfume portending
another slaughter of the innocents.