If I could paint the nativity

The brush would snag on hymns,

the ones that praise her for her silence.

A saint. A miracle.

Precious. Untouched.

Fertile. Chosen.

But what is divine

about being robbed

of body, choice

and voice?

I’d smudge the lines between virgin and mother,

their impossible contradiction,

the cruel riddle.

Ochre for girls who burn themselves pure,

crimson for mothers w…