Word Become Flesh

Herald the child: meek,
mild. Herald him on trumpets
ambatured for war.

Angel chorus sang
“Goodwill t’ward men” to men who
bludgeoned dogs with sticks.

The smell of sheepshit
stinks like vowelless YHWH
in meconium.

Voice that let light be
scared me from a dreamless sleep—
nipples cracked—to feed.

Swollen labia,
hemorrhoids, riding an ass
back to Nazareth.

Foot that bruised my ribs
swings unswaddled, marking His
absence in my womb;
ribs—stretched—set on edge.
Joseph asks, “Like Adam when
YHWH made woman?”

No. The serpent crawled
round Him inside. My ribs were snake’s
coils. I bruised His heel.

“You speak too harshly,”
Joseph says. No. I’m born
in wounds He caused me.