Madonna


Tremulous, she held the dawn-skinned Babe,

as spoken of old, the sole woman’s Seed.

Her body gave drink to His helpless frame;

so would He lay down, spilling Drink for me.

Her body was bread for his infancy,

so his, for my quickening, became Bread untamed.

A portrait of earth letting go in Joy’s rush

of the bones of the Risen, with triumph alive,

she with the Star-told Child lies hushed –

hers the dark belly from which sprang Life.

Not she alone, but all her kindred and kind

do the Passionate Tale so entirely enflesh:

The hame of motherhood and bright fulcral crèche

thrust on a servant whom Love would reclaim.

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