She will never bear anybody’s baby, no matter how many of us
try, gone beyond that biological need, not a necessity for her, though at
times, in the death of night, I ponder the possibility, how I might probe those
space, inject what is necessary where it is necessary to become true, leaving
behind a host of possible sons or daughters, empty shells on a lonely beach,
abandoned, fodder for the seagulls, dripping from her thigh like a near miss.
So I imagine her as mother when she is not the Madona, but
instead that other Mary, Christ forgave, even gave blessing to, and would it be
a sacrilege to believe he might have left his see with her as well, knowing
there could be only one virgin birth when we all know she is not a virgin.
I want to plant my seeds in her garden, even when they will
never grow, to fill up those empty spaces in her life, and she letting me do
it.
