• Chris Fahy

Mothers

by Chris Fahy


On a lawn, life-sized, well lit,

The figures of the Nativity bow

Before the Christ-child,

Kings and shepherds crouching,

Mary ascendant over all--

Fulfillment of the Virgin,

Her son, her hour.

I pass a house I have passed

A thousand times before,

And notice for the first time,

A faded Mary placed between two bushes,

Spreading out her palms,

Presiding over garden, peonies and roses,

A mother blessing all fecundity,

A simple Mary, a singular plot

Of land. And I think of all mothers,

My own in particular, pulling weeds at dusk,

Picking raspberries, watering the flowers,

Simple like Mary, loving beauty—

I am the fruit of her womb.

Oh, to live a life that’s hidden,

Secluded bower, waiting for a

Seed that blooms into a secret life—

Male and female we await,

Hoping to be full of grace,

A gift unearned, our sins forgiven,

We are Mary, bearing Christ.

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