One of the Magi

Buggy baby, the Thou
in the deep feedbox

that rams snort around,
I’m shaking a vial

of my fragrant
blood. Other resin’s

in my tatty pockets.
O Mumsy and “Dad”

and you donkeys braying
toward Aries and Vero Beach,

you hogs inhaling
half-thawed Swanson slops—

clear the barn, he’s
mine. I see his unhealed

wound, a fresh
umbilical stump

that purses and dilates
so urgently.

Do I unstopper,
pour, and smear?

Gift him everything
human, myrrhed virus?

Copyright © 2007 Greg Wrenn All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission