Sonnet for the Mother Mary

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I remember the low moan of cattle,
Their feet stirring the hay to musty gold,
And the sound of a rolling boulder
Like distant nursery thunder.

As a child I heard sobbing in the tents:
Our bodies took the vow of coming pain.
In Bethlehem, my womb was forever
Praying, alone beneath a starving heart.

I wanted to serve but not in body—
No temple teaches this low, animal love,
Shabby and regular as tearing skin,
That chains my mind to disappearing flesh.

This is the lesson I took from my Lord:
To love what you were born to lose.