In Bethlehem

If Jesus is born tonight
in Bethlehem,
no bright star shines overhead.
Tonight, army flares,
afloat on parachutes,
shed their glow upon the land.

There are no flocks of sheep,
no shepherds nodding off to sleep
when silence explodes white
with artillery fire,
when buildings collapse in thunder,
a hundred people buried, burned, smashed.

Seraphs don't descend aglow
to assuage the fear of those below,
to proclaim tidings of joy,
to urge townsfolk beside
a newborn's cradle
draped in swaddling clothes.

Instead, jets streak by
and lick the sky with flame,
grenades explode,
bulldozers crash through
the sacred stone walls of old.

Now and then, an infant wails,
not the newborn Christ,
but a baby with both arms
blown off.

There are no wise men here,
not even three.
There are no treasures
revealed at cribside,
only missiles, mortar shells, bullets,
brought up in crates
from underground.

There is no Mary, no Joseph
secreting Jesus away --
only boys and girls
who strap on bombs,
wire battery triggers
'round their waists.

Scott Speck
04/09/2002