Mother of God

Maybe they told me

 

about the tearing, that I would wish

to die before the end. But of course

I didn’t understand.

Somehow I thought, maybe,

You’d come easy, slipping in among

us like a soft

word.

But is birth ever so compliant?

No, I see now,  You came for it all,

all in with us, pushing

Your way into the world

as we ever do, in blood

and blindly.

 

You seared me from the start,

Ripped me wide, seized everything,

and that pain

was but the first. I didn’t know what agony

awaited, and once began, You know how I

prayed for You to take

this cup.

 

Your screams followed mine

as your naked flesh met our cold

welcome, You flailing in his grasp, both

bewildered. Even then we were homeless

and exhausted. I felt already I had

failed you, looked into Joseph’s eyes

and saw the shame. But then

 

he placed You in my arms. Then Your quiet

breath, that impossible flush

on your cheek, Your eyes closed

in sleep or sorrow. It’s true I emptied

all my strength into You, and You began

in that moment the sundering

that would pierce my soul.

 

I might have raged in that unknown

place, the crude birth-room prepared

by strangers and far from all the comforts

I had gathered. But the kind hands

that served us and the wondering eyes,

free from scorn, of those men with their

tale of angels and astonishment—they taught

me the beginnings of the grace

of our joined sojourn, that I could give You nothing

but my arms held out for You, that I was meant

to receive. And isn’t this ever

 

the way of things? You come among

us in our anguish, drain us dry,

and stay. And when we keep

You close, reaching out our need   

to hold You, the weight of You is

everything.