Immaculate Conception : for Eileen Cowin

It was not love. No flowers or ripened figs

were in his hands, no words

in his mouth. There was no body

to obstruct us from each other.

The sun was white-hot, a brand

that sank through me and left no mark.

Yet I knew. And Joseph,

poor Joseph with his thick palms,

wearing antlers.

What could he do but wash

the scorched smell from the linen?

What could he do but fit the blades

of wood together into a cradle?

The rain fell and the leaves closed

over us like a shield.

A small light formed and the taper

that held it aloft

was dipped many times into my blood.

Now the being rests in the bowl of my hips.

There is no turning. Already

the nails are forged.

The tree thickens.