Second Trimester

That awkward stage

As I continue to share my series of poems written for Rabbit Room last Christmas (thank you, Rabbit Room!), let’s give my mom a shout-out for, you know, doing this whole thing.

Many Protestants get squeamish about talking about Mary too much, as if they can’t honor her and recognize my divinity at the same time.

But let’s not forget: She was indeed, blessed among women, and her saying yes to being part of the incarnation is a very big deal.

There’s a snail shell in the poem, so

You can keep food down now—
more, in fact, than you ever thought 
possible. It melts into my body 

like manna on the tongue. 
A sudden flare of energy
propels you to the river at dusk,

where you wade in and tilt 
your face to the stars. You linger 
on that trembling one 

to the east. If only you knew! 
Water laps just inches 
from the translucent snail shells 

of my ears as you float, hair 
spreading out to catch
a billion gemstones of diatoms,

dinoflagellates. They, too, 
will be saved, I tell them. 
Their love is too much to bear. 

When you stand up, the fabric
clings. Look at that bump! Nah, 
you shrug. Probably too many raisins. 

It’s like you don’t believe 
I am here. I could swing a lantern 
in your rib cage, and you would miss 

the light. When you start to fall 
asleep tonight—hair damp, 
soul calm—I will flutter kick, 

and you’ll catch your breath. 
Joseph! you’ll whisper, 
kneeing him awake. I feel him!

He’ll squint, suspended out of time
for a moment, then turn over 
and mumble, Are you sure?