The bitch finishes her heat, 
seven squirming mouths that 
beg, yes bay for the teat 
and instead, get blood; torn. 

Mary is with child and she 
sheds it from her body. Carves 
it from her womb, leaves it 
to gasp air and beg mama 
in the chaff.

Mary made my child and she 
left it to die. Mary says 
to have children is to multiply 
the curse of my Father. Mary rips the Son
from her stomach, and I haven’t since
May known a dream of her.

The black loom hurling Red Vines
to Red Vines to foramen to ulna
to pectoralis major, baby 
Jesus take pity on us.

Bless, curse 
the matted hay, the light bulb 
burning in the stable; the radio on all night long. Who I was 
when I ran out of gas
to set the straw on fire with.