Thirty-six, and not a son
or daughter to her name.
Does she want one?
Her mother told her
angels bring us babies.
In her dream they flew through sunrise,
pink and blue tufts streaming
from their icy morning wings.
Aunt Jenny had no children.
Didn't the angels like her?

She lifts crystal angels
from a tissue paper cradle,
arranges them under this year's
Christmas tree – a tumbleweed.
Yes, she is tumbling, drifting…
Wasn't there something
she wanted to ask for?
She sets up the papier-mâché crèche
next to the angels, like dolls
under the tree, a new baby each year,
the way she thinks it must be
for women without choices.

Has she made a choice?
Or is she waiting for someone
with a beautiful name like Gabriel
to tap her on the shoulder?
She wraps the tree in white
lights and tinsel like a bride.
All night it will say "O"
in the black window.