By Patrick Cabello Hansel
Herod has grown to a yeti”'s size,
with hands to match, and a voice
made hoarse by vainglory.
His henchmen do not speak,
but bang their poles on the ground as if digging for oil,
stealing horses, writing summons for the dead.
This is no place for a woman with child,
no place for her husband to beg,
no place to wait.
There is always no room at the inn.
There are always innocents to hunt.
But on this night, few neighbors venture out,
armed only with names: brother, madre, cousin,
tio, their hands holding each relation
like an egg, a newborn, a seed.
Open up the river, old king.
We walk with stars,
we walk with angels,
we walk with our wounds,
our own sweet voices.
