In Bethlehem

I'd locked up
turned away good money
last night I'd said:
no more
the place was teeming.

couldn't sleep for
mothers fretting
to quiet children so
restless fathers rested
and by sunrise
the milk ran out.

just a child
her fullness did not fit
jerked my slack womb
back like vertigo
to the first time.

the sky was clear
sweat beaded the dark
hair on her lip
I thought:
she'll not make it.

he was older
and mindful but
made a space
around her
so wide and dark
the moon could rise there.

the donkey was lame
but I had enough to do.
then he offered work
in exchange for
a bed.

his hands sawdust-dry
and scarred
a middle finger
missing from the knuckle
I drew water
and found vinegar
for the animal.

the recess was cosy
I'd slept there myself once
when the ox was in calf
and once
when my mother died.

there's extra hay
out back I said
and left her knelt
by the milking stool while
he saw to the donkey.

I couldn't settle
felt her cries and unhooked
my mother's linen shawl
with something
not used in years.

no need for torches
the moon full and hot
and wolves calling from the hills
as I found her curled
on the straw.

the fear in her eyes
lent her face a rich glow
and as I shouldered
her grip and sang
for the troubled calf
my mind traversed
to another time here
long ago in the dark:

a child in the stalls
the dung sweet and fresh
masks her fear
as she hears
her mother's stuttered prayer
and the gasp of torches
stifled.

the glint of
a shearing-knife
in the straw and
he's gone.

the oxen unmilked
bay in the morning
and blood-bound cold
to her mother's breast
she wakes.

later that night
straw damp with
the heady scent of birth
her midwife learned the story
of her confinement:

how a messenger
sowed good news
to a maid betrothed
and secured
his angelic status.

then I knew her strength
as she suckled her boy
while the carpenter slept.

shepherds came
left their flocks
to visit this sacred place
one watched
as I bound the babe
in linen bands torn
from my mother's shawl.