One year, my sister and I
subjected Christmas mythology
to empirical testing.
“Sign here,” scrawled on
cardstock, “if you, Greenie
the Wonder Dog, who we love
so so much, are truly real.”
Then a hand-dotted line,
the length of a linchpin.
Folded over, addressed,
blessed with a gold star sticker,
scotch-taped to the pebbly wall
above the obligatory cookies.
We’d play the powers that be like
cheap psychics fed false
leads on how to flatter us best.
Come morning, bypassing presents
we opened the card to find
our stepfather’s scrawl
dyslexically confirming
the existence of a recently
invented flying dog.
We frowned a little at the gifts,
realizing they had been sacrificed
to the idols of magical thinking.
We both got just what we wanted.
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