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.