Third Trimester

Oof

Beloveds, we’re getting so close to my birthday! Emmanuel’s coming whether you like it or not.

Here’s the penultimate poem in the Christmas series Tania and I wrote for Rabbit Room in 2024. We so appreciate the support they’ve given us over the past year.

Now, onto the heavy stuff.

Image by Dong Khoi from Pixabay

Neither of us can barely move
these days, but still
you shuffle to the market

where women scowl at you
from behind their stacks
of gourds. It doesn’t help

that I’m not technically
his, but as I’ll proclaim
from a mountain one day,

blessed are the misunderstood.
You don’t have to explain
yourself. It’s enough

that you’re dying to rub
your swollen ankles
and can only reach your shins.

As for me, I pass the time
quoting Isaiah in the dark.
Wonderful. Counselor. 

Prince of Peace. Pierced 
for their transgressions.
Crushed.

One minute, I can barely wait 
to unfurl into the melee
of lepers and Pharisees,

the next, I want to shrink
into your glittering zygote again.
What will it feel like 

to be pierced? If I can barely 
imagine  the idea, Ama, 
how will you survive?

No. No. Tomorrow must worry
about itself. I will tuck myself 
lower into your pelvis now, 

prepare myself to push 
my face a little closer
to the uneasy light.