another account of Mary’s birth

Mary’s ripe, her architecture

Almost, not entirely complete –

Only God and close family

Are without imperfection,

And she’s just nature’s selection -

But she’s ready to face the world,

Declare Babylon her birth-right.

The Earth begins to shake, its cunts dilate,

Tectonic plates grind and sunder

Volcanos erupt, ash, thunder;

Blocked the sun, soothsayers wonder

Whether this is the end, the date

Predicted, a new poetic trait

Burying the old voices of late

Lamented souls – those vigorous throats

Upon whom she’ll hang her coats,

Multicoloured, in dimensions

Unknown, unseen, creations

Some will say are the devil’s work,

Others a literary quirk….

But enough! The head’s emerging,

A final push! All encouraging

Out she slithers bloodlines tethered,

Soon to be dismantled, gathered

In museums while she perfects,

Hones her skills in all dialects.

Breathless her mother, highly charged,

“Child, you’re absolutely divine.”

And Mary begins spinning, singing,

“I am, I am my own design,

I am the first, my every line

A virgin birth; I am the Earth.”