Self-Portrait as Laundry

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Salvation is implied, posed as I am

in front of a blurry, artificial Tannenbaum

and my mother's crèche, its plaster lambs

and pendant angel barely visible. I am

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a downy five months, my bald crown

enhaloed by the base's Bavarian sun.

My clothes, appropriately, seem clean:

white jumper, white sleeves. Each white hand

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grips a side of the eggnog-hued hamper.

My expression, a visual whimper,

mirrors the dog's. His name, Burt.

I've always thought the crux of the manger

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lay in the piss-soaked straw, the tang of goat

a sort of compositional antidote

to immaculacy. A shock of skunk-white

climbs Burt's chest to his black throat.

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We stare the same direction, toward the man

who handles the camera instead of a gun

and dangles a treat to capture our attention.

I'm still too new to know that I'm his son.

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[Thanks to The Hopkins Review for originally printing this piece.]