A Magnificat in July

A Magnificat in July, through stifling heat she shouts

About deliverance yet unborn, peering presumptuously
Into faraway days, crowing that she yes she
Will be blessed. She, yes, she is glowing with sweat

And the incarnation, tummy full of nerves and of God.

A bursting taunt from the closet, bellowed behind
Closed doors— that badness and sadness
And untold masses who won’t talk to strangers—
A royal decree already, that they will be soon yielding
To the lightsome liberation with which she yes she
Is pregnant.

Half howling, half singing, fingers drumming on her
Rising stomach, voice lifted up she asks before the
Burning sun—How long, how long, how long
Til the light gets in, til Christmas
Til she gives birth at last to the Holy
Real as when (not as if), real as blood.

If Jesus were born in December-- and here I am speaking in the truth of poetry, not about historical hunches-- Mary probably sang her Magnificat in July. I love the Magnificat, I love that the Episcopal Daily Office has us pray it in evening prayer every other night. It is not just a Christmas text. Every night, we are waiting on God, every night, we are awaiting liberation. 

I am writing this while Facetiming with my sister. My sister is nine years old; in my family we say one of the reasons God gave her to us was to keep us young. When I went to visit my parents and brother and sister last Thanksgiving, I took her on a shopping trip and bought her a pink unicorn journal because she wanted to write like me. Now we are both at our desks, writing, stopping periodically to share about what we are doing and to dance to Taylor Swift songs. 

I am not Roman Catholic enough to call Mary my mother. Nor will I be low church Protestant enough to say Mary is just another one of the faithful. No, today Mary is my big sister, and I am writing in hopes I can be like her when I grow up. 

Roommates in Heaven

Anna Nicole Smith got to heaven and she got left without a roommate and God said Sonny boy here’s looking at you and Jesus said All right Daddy will do.

So Jesus walked in and asked Which bunk? and she said I was planning to stay on my own and Jesus said Silly you can’t do heaven alone.
They went water walking and parable talking.
Demon casting and prayer fasting.
Jesus got some great fashion tips. He threw those crusty old sandals away and hasn’t worn white since Labor Day.
He admired all her (decent) photos.
She read all his books.
I think they like each other.


I was going through old poetry I wrote and found this. I think I wrote it but I don't know for sure, so I can't try to get it published. If it's even good enough for that, I don't know. If anyone thinks they know who wrote it I'd be glad to know. But I'm fairly confident that I wrote this, and I took the liberty of making a few revisions tonight. It sounds like my poetic voice, with short bursts and with careful attention to sound. I also like to try on poetic personas who are different from my usual personality and behavior-- sometimes jubilant, sometimes even whimsical. And moreover, my best poetic muse has always been the Incarnation, the immanence of God with me and with other losers. The great reversal, the lovely surprise of the Christ who hangs around precisely the people religious folks think he would avoid. Reading this poem again made me find that muse. Whether I first wrote it or not, it makes me want to keep writing now. 
It just struck me there's something just right about not knowing if a poem is yours. Real poetry ultimately belongs not to the poet, but to everyone-- like nature, like God.