by MAGGIE DOWNS
I do not want much this Christmas time
There is but one thing I need.
It is not a gift that can be placed beneath the holiday tree,
The house is fill’d with merriment, I breathe the fragrance of the festivities,
I invite my soul to celebrate.
I do not require to hang my stocking
Thereupon the fireplace
My hair, my tongue, every atom in my body form’d from this air
feeds the Yuletide fire
and the very spread of my thighs proclaims noel.
I would only like for my own—more than you could ever know—
not this earth, which is only sufficient.
No, I shall desire the huff of my breath, the constellations of my heart, the sound of my barbaric yawp as it strikes the goose down of the morning.
And perhaps you,
Though you shall assume that every atom of you was form’d by me.
Who shall bring this to me? I need not Santa Claus!
Divine am I!
For I make my own wish come true.
Clear and sweet is my soul, naughty and nice is my spirit.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself
(I am large, my stocking contains multitudes)
I hear you whispering there O Santa Claus,
O red hat—O jolly lips—O canes of candy,
Ye who cannot possibly fulfill me. I am unfillable.
No jolly old elf could make me happy.
It matters not if it snows,
Nor how long you wait beneath the mistletoe
Each delicious moment I spend with myself is not a burden.
(The elfin folk already know this to be true.)
If I worship one thing you must know
It cannot be found in a church,
It is my tussled crown of hair! My beard like gander rear!
The muscular fields of my back, the trickling sap of my girth.
I sing only of myself!
B’cause baby, all I want for Christmas is me!
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