This poem is meant to be an ironic look at the death of childhood fables, the superheroes our parents wrap the world in: Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. For me, I think a large piece of my ability to believe in things was lost on Jaunary 28, 1986. The day the Space Shuttle Challenger, at the cusp of making history, made it more than it ever imagined. For days, I maintained a general belief that maybe they had somehow survived. Of course, that was just a silly little childhood dream, a fable I told myself, to understand.
"Santa Claus"
He died 1986, January 28th: Fell, wreathed in a sleigh of flames. The infinite just another Icarus: a name We gave to fables dying every day. The wintry breath held its breath And the noon was as blue as calm. The heads down, children playing at Stars too early for the night. And if he bathed on the ocean floor, A smile upon his melted face— his pipe and button nose lost, just memories in the way; Maybe he remembered the gift I adored, Maybe he remembered outerspace. And the silt and salt washes him away. Maybe he will reminesce the moon, Maybe he misses that day years ago, maybe he misses the falling snow. The gentle brandy, the cookies, the Stream of lights above the North Pole. And maybe the toys ceased in their play, Wrapped in boxes, cheap Christ allegory: what has two legs in the afternoon but bleeds only once at sunset? And if the water flows like salt and the lots cast? Maybe they meant nothing, the stories; Maybe they mean anything. The winter held its night, then, The winds blew to the West. Maybe all it meant was outerspace.
The "Original" Version (really an edit that came months later, the original might be lost)
The Easter Bunny died 1986, January 28th. Santa fell, wreathed in a sleigh of flames. The infinite just another Icarus: a name We gave to fables dying every day. The wintry breath held its sigh And the noon was as blue as calm. The heads down, there was no storm, Just stars too early for the night. And if Santa bathed on the ocean floor, A smile upon his melted face— his pipe and button nose lost, just memories in the way; Maybe he remembered the gift I adored, Maybe he remembered outerspace. And if Santa breathes no more, And the silt and salt washes him away. Maybe he will reminesce the watery moon, Maybe he misses that day years ago, the falling snow. And maybe the toys will cease in their play, Wrapped in their boxes, cheap Christ death allegories: what has two legs in the afternoon but bleeds only once at sunset. and the water flows like an ocean of salt and the lots cast? Maybe they meant nothing, the stories; Maybe they mean anything. The wintry breath held its night, And the school kids laughed and played. Their time for mourning all away, Washed into the shadows' quiet. The Santa Claus fell apart January 28th, Re-entry before he ever left. That day, 1986, winds blowing to the west, Maybe all it meant was outerspace.
This poem written by W. Doug Bolden.
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