Bethlehem: Mary
What if you hadn’t let her in? What if
She was outside, the prophecy was doomed?
What if the moment—wombed and under-
roomed—
Rewrote itself?
Still, today, we’d bear its grief,
The way we do the story that we own.
That is the way with hypotheticals.
We get so far, and we are there, right back
Inside the vanity of human breath.
What if what we are speaking of is death?
Perhaps this “just suppose” is how hope stalls
And reacquaints itself with trouble’s stain
Until we can go on; rewrites the ache
Until it feeds us what we then must eat.
And is it fresh, or is it rancid meat?
—Presence 2018