David Fine
The writhing
woman in white
did not seem very
virginal, innocent,
inexperienced; she knew
what she was doing and how
she was doing it.
She answered:
I do,
only after spasms of open-
legged
grinding, bridal
gown not quite veiling the boy-
toy belt beneath. I didn't
understand "virgin"
but I knew that
was not
touched for the very first time.
The meek
mother in blue
did not seem very
prodigious, innocent,
otherworldly either; she knew
what she was doing and how
she was doing it.
She answerd:
Yes!
carried the savior high, incarnated
divinity, opened her womb
to God
and Joseph. I didn't
understand "Ave Maria,"
but I knew that
was not
ever-virgin.
Years later
the Madonnas remain
like a virgin.
Thankfully I hear
Mary's screams—of pain
as the head of a savior
tears through her vagina, of ecstasy
as she and Joseph
know one another.
A human being
raises a child
to love
in empire,
persecution—to give
to the least, last
the fornicators and adulterers.
A mother
fecund, cares—a woman,
strong enough to bleed:
a miracle of love.
I doubted early,
believed late.
Still, the Protestants comb Ephesus for bones to
refute the Catholics' assumption.