Most of us live in Christian families.
Something warm is hitting your face,
Softly, like rain,
But warm like a baby's cheeks
Or the first mists of summer
Scented faintly of fungi from those old forest paths
Walked by lovers years before
Things got so complicated,
An acrid vinegar cream of mushroom smell.
Something warm is hitting your face,
And Jesus stands over you, while Devils murmur,
"Yul is the holiday, and it predates these saps, fag."