Virgin Birth
Wine is thicker than the water of the womb,
and is a blessing to be cherished over bread broken with believers.
Such loaves were lined in parchment,
out of papyrus sheets, the inscribed words to be erased
in favor of a spoken language.
We are born fledglings to the savior.
The blindest eyes could see the bits
that fall from mouths, in pieces and in prayer,
in surrender to false Gods
that preach in diminished tones.
The most that can be made from it is
blasphemy, though only the most devout may see it.
When will they spare more than a few words for us,
who carry half the world on our back?
Bring forth the illuminations, which depict us as madonnas or whores,
but never whole.
Idolaters leave offerings for the men before us,
and make piety out of children I’d rather not bear.
Can a sacrifice be made from predestiny,
or is it a privilege given to the most fair?
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