& weren’t we all once slick girls
in the bath, knees to chest,
thinking of Mary,
effigy of maidenhood?
hunched & afraid, drawn
to the inconceivable latch
of her miracle, the feat of our own
withholding cisterns.
if the flood came, we swore
we would again be good,
better even. if we were spared,
we would harken back, remember
God could stitch life through
a grave. now, carmine weaving
between my ankles days later
than expected, I recall a friend
who refused to let a man touch
her clot before they wed,
who feared God
would curse her with a suckling
of packed sediment, dead
weight in her tomb.
but punishment must be
ancillary to mercy, a scar
rewritten as a sign, something
before which we cower—no,
marvel. O’ Mary, is birth
not its own inhumation,
did your child not emerge
perfectly alive
& written to die?
Tumulus
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