Transfiguration

The alarm sinks its teeth
into my ear. I drag out
of our warm bed. Another
winter day breaks
in fragments of nightmare.
The sun hasn’t shown,
afraid to face this growling wind
and the thousands of dreary
commuters going nowhere beyond
the dollar sign and grave marker.

I punch on the light and you
roll back over, “love you’s”
exchanged ritually. Baby begins
to cry. I dash for his milk,
one arm in my coat, trailing
dismay, late, late as usual
and tired as this old house
with its peeling paint and cracked bricks.

You hold our son. He smiles,
calls to me and you smile,
that sweet uncertain way.
The sun sends its first weak rays
through this east facing room,
catches, frames you just as I turn
to leave. This narrow space opens;
your honey curls, his cap of gold
blaze—madonna and child.

—B. R. Strahan