While the turkey’s breast is carved open
To welcome white flesh, we remember,
The virgin’s breast that was squeezed open
By an infant, where too, it was all white,
As white as the snowdrops that sneak out of the snow
To mark the beginning of spring.
While the cranberry sauce eagerly awaits,
Like a harbinger, that prophesizes
That blood will be spilled one day,
When that child becomes, the son of man.
And the son of man, will become the meat
On offer, to be garnished by his own blood,
And served as a spread to mankind,
Who will gather to his memory at Golgotha,
Of the child who became the savior,
Who saved us from the legacy of the forbidden apple.
The same apple that made mitochondrial
Eve fall from grace, the same grace,
We are thankful for, as we slice,
The turkey’s meat at Christmas.