grief for the Holy Child

a sword would pierce my side, he said.
he spoke nothing of my heart.
how it would be ripped apart
seeing Him hung,
dangle on that tree,
listening to blasphemy
hurled upon my Boy.

to them, His pain was politics.
the death of a Dream.
a Man who gave dinner.
a Leader. a Sinner.
a Healer. a Liar.

but to me? to me?

he was my Baby.
for Him, my body swelled; my arms
they held this Baby.
rocked Him.

i sang Him to sleep,
waiting until His breathing was deep
before pulling His Body away from mine
to lay Him down for the night.

now my Baby could not breathe.

He gasped.
He gasped.

and gasping, He gave me away.
“here is your son.”
gasping, He yelled “it is done.”

suddenly, i heard a sound.
it was an animal– guttural. screaming.
i felt arms surround me
whispering through weeping
to hush. to hush.
i rushed to cover my mouth.

it was me– that sound.

they took him down then. from that tree.
and just for a moment,
they gave Him to me.

my arms, they held Him.
my Baby.
i rocked Him.
i sang to Him, listening for breathing.

none.
none.

i rocked until His blood seeped
through my clothes.
through my skin.

the sounds, they came again.

then they took Him– i clung.
they pried,
pulling His body away from mine
to lay my Boy down in the Night.


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