Its weathercock covered with fresh snow,
the barn is dreamy on the hill.
Out of the woods, and lying low,
crawl green men, in . . . in for the kill.
There is no knocking at the door,
only a Mongol’s rag-wrapped boot.
He finds her hidden near a store
of oats and rye. She’ll be his loot.
The fearsome genes of Genghis Khan
tell him to grab her by the hair,
red as the sunset on the San,
and ride her flesh like a white mare.
Four inches is enough to slant
the blue eyes of her progeny.
He starts his vodka-reeking pant,
blood on his dirty thigh and knee.
And light, it shines through apertures,
the eyes of needles in the hay.
Whose mother, sister, teacher, nurse
the queue moves toward this Christmas day?