La Pieta

Sometimes in my nightmares, I remember Gabriel lambent
and resplendent, with calla lilies at hand and white fire
at his brow, wrapping me up in wings of infinity and kissing
my mouth with a trickster’s manna. God descended upon my
virgin womb and thus, my greatest pride and greatest sorrow
was conceived, once a babe I suckled, then a man’s corpse I
brought down from that cursed cross and rocked to death’s shore.
I am not sacred, I am not holy, I am simply a servant, oh humanity.
A vessel for the Son of God, pious and plain, I am not the kind
to tempt the Grigori, I am simple in my washing and sewing, and
when I labored in that manger, brown dirt at my brow, sweet Joseph
clutching my back as Salome midwifed sweet Yeshua into this fallen
world, I did not think of the travails to come. I did not think of
the bitterness of losing my very soul, of following blind in my
progeny’s direction after he ascended to who knew where, only that
I followed in time, up to the aether, and I would hold every child
to my breast, to drink of my milk, and soothe their wounds, all for
love.

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