Annunciation, by Carissa Coane

The Annunciation, by Henry Ossawa Tanner (USA) 1898

​Annunciation

Gabriel comes to me as apparition
of you, sun that hangs outside: bright,
full, round as my belly will grow.
He speaks of you, Lord, your wishes,

says I should not question your divine
judgment, but how can I not? I, mother
to Messiah, girl who must be reminded
by my own mother to flatten creased

carpet against brick floors, who abstains,
yet, by your will, grows old all the same? 
How can you tell me not to fear the kicks
at my ribcage, aimed with the force and

precision of David’s slingshot? A tapestry
insulates my bed from winter’s chill, but
still I wrap my arms around myself at night.
How can I keep him warm, trust my body

to fall in line with your celestial plan, now 
that it knows? How can I stop my fingers
from trembling as I swaddle him, my mind
from considering the consequences of wrapping

his blanket just a little too tight, mispronouncing
a word in your book as I read to him? How 
can I nurture something imbued with more
potential than is possible for me to conceptualize?

How can I comb a lock of sunlight’s hair
and command it to sleep with confidence
in my voice? How can I find solace in
heaven when it is small and pink in my arms

and doesn’t stop crying, no matter what I do?
I can’t mask my dismay, eyes wide, hands
grasping each other, in need of something
solid to hold onto, finding only themselves.

I accept your proclamation-how can I refuse, but
then, how can I, a single thread woven into your
cosmic cloth, trust myself not to snag at 
the magnitude of my task? How can anyone?

Carissa Coane

Carissa's poetry has been featured in anthologies published by Heroica and the Laurel Review. A recipient of the Bergen International Literary Festival's 2024 prize in poetry, she is currently a social media manager for Asymptote journal. She is 21 years old.