Wendy Rainey

CHRISTMAS IN JULY

I’ve been passing it every day,
for the past six years.
Santa, in his sleigh, waving to me,
from my neighbor’s rooftop.
His eight reindeer ascending
the Southern California skies,
guided by Rudolph,
whose nose is now dangling
from a wire.

It was funny the first couple of years.
The, I don’t give a damn
what the neighbors think, attitude.
But as I’ve witnessed the slow decay
of the reindeer,
one by one,
toppling down the roof,
necks snapped,
broken limbs entwined,
bellies exposed to the scorching sun,
I feel sad for all of us.
And Santa falling on his face
like a drunk
who couldn’t make it
to his own front door.
And finally,
the sleigh itself,
teetering
near the edge of the roof,
secured, for now,
by a single string of lights
that haven’t been plugged into a socket
in years.

Walking by the remains today,
I see a new development.
The crows have come to strip St. Nick
of his furry red Christmas suit,
that has, by now, faded pink
under the relentless sun.
They peck and tear at the fur,
carrying it away to their nests,
leaving Santa naked.
His long, white beard flies away
in the clutches
of a crow.

Wendy Rainey is author of Hollywood Church: Short Stories and Poems and Girl on the Highway. She is a 2022 recipient of the Annie Menebroker Poetry Award and a runner-up in the 2022 Angela Consolo Mankiewicz Poetry Prize. She studied poetry with Jack Grapes and creative writing with Gerald Locklin.