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Word Become Flesh

Christmas Poetry Series | No. 2

Published on:
December 21, 2017
Read time:
1 min.
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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.

Seth Wieck
Seth Wieck grew up on a dryland farm in a region that receives less than twenty inches of rain per year. His father counseled him to leave agriculture, so he earned his BA in English and philosophy from West Texas A&M University. He now lives in Amarillo with his wife and three children. His stories, poetry, and essays can be found in various publications, including Narrative Magazine and Curator Magazine.

Cover image by Melanie Wasser.

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