Postcard from Venice

Helen Wickes

To any of the others who are listening,
if, indeed, you bother listening, no offense.
I want to tell that other you about our trip,

which was mainly Baby Jesus in Ma’s arms,
then Baby Jesus grown up, about his business,
washing some feet, hauling his cross uphill,

blood drops on his brow. I don’t want to offend,
but in umpteen venues Baby Jesus on a cross,
breathing out his ghost, back in Ma’s arms again,

though you, who never swooned over babies,
much less maternity, you’d have loved the dark,
the incense, the burst of sunlight on the canals.

But I can’t send a postcard, can’t call to tell you
about our hours, how they passed, how they’re gone.