She wasn’t thinking of babies at all, before
a beefy Gabriel dive-bombed her rackety room;
Outside, her almost husband sawed and planed,
joined mortise to tenon, slid dovetails into place.
Time enough when they were properly wed.
She was just reading, puzzling over prophets
and all the great reversals of fate they promise:
tyrants tumbled, the ragged, downtrodden raised.
When would all this levelling happen, and how?
Then the brute angel barged in; and in the air
a chain, a garland of babies, babies, babies –
how could one woman ever welcome so many?
But it was just one, her baffling son, she must bear.
She pictured the timbers falling from Joseph’s hand.
Veronica Zundel is a non-fiction writer and graduate of the Poetry School/Newcastle MA in Writing Poetry. Her poems have been published in Other Poetry, Magma, The Alchemy Spoon and various anthologies, used in an OU foundation course and broadcast on Radio 2. She has won the Barnet Open and Cruse Lines competitions and been a finalist in the Mslexia competition. She lives in London, UK.
Colin Jeffrey Morris
5/25/2022 04:48:47 pm
material wonder in fresh form -- brilliance
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