First, her mother prayed No

but there was nothing

she could do. All along

she knew.

She watched

the angel announcing,

heard her daughter’s consenting.



Many things cannot be told:

What it’s like to fall in love

(though the poets try)

To hold your child

To feel the pressure

of the hand of god

To die.



I can feel the pressure

of their hands.

When I awaken in the night,

afraid of how my life will be,

how hard my death,

I can hear them,

see them in the shadows

from the first light’s song

to the spiral winding home.



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