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.