Nativity
The baby Jesus is sorry to command the sight line, our eyes abandoning the ever-shadowy Joseph right away, knowing him a walk-on to restore Mary’s rep. We rest a moment on the mater dolorosa, a blue horror hugging the emptiness where her babe would have been had he not slipped from her grasp. Hollowed, she has chewed fingers to the quick. We empathize, yet can’t wait to find the tiny imp, God become man, perched at the lip of mystery, God’s own omphalos. Look at the Divine behind, split in two, light and dark, (Mani right after all) wondering what to do with this foundling. Lift him up again, certainly, but how and how high? Not back to his mother, already drowning in an ocean of tears, or to Joseph, red-handed in the way of all men but higher still, the way of the cross, out of sight. Devon Balwit This poem was written as part of the surprise Christmas poetry challenge. Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. She has a chapbook, Forms Most Marvelous, forthcoming from dancing girl press (summer 2017). Her recent poems have appeared in numerous print/on-line journals, among them: Oyez, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, Serving House Journal, The Journal of Applied Poetics, Emerge Literary Journal, Timberline Review, Trailhead Magazine VCFA, The Prick of the Spindle, and Permafrost.
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May 2023
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