I think that Mary, the Mother of God one,
Was an introvert. A thoughtful, private young
Person, prone to treasuring things in her heart,
Not blustering it all out to everyone and
Of so much light, the pulsing of perfect DNA
Anyone. For who would understand the carrying
Through fingertips and hair follicles.
Who could Share the depth of her questions, having held eye
The One who flung fire and dust into stars.
Contact with angels, having been overshadowed by
Only with Elizabeth, bearer of grief and grace, older woman,
Cousin, friend, did she sing of how her girl’s body was
Straddling worlds.
Who else would, or could, clearly hear?
Until the sting of that sword in her
Own soul stabbed into our primal fear.
Slashes us towards empathy
Her own son Struggling, suffering
Meshes with her flesh and bone.
Poems & Other Stuff 