Fourteen Lines for Mary

Mary, Mother of God, taker of hands,

bright pitcher wielding the life of life. You know

a woman with child must eat enough for two,

yet meek and mild prescribes some son of man

who holds the mighty high and lowly low,

who paints you pale but tinges Eve with stain,

who meets a holy hunger with reprimand,

for wonder’s a useless sword against her woe.

No! God-bearer, taker of holy chances,

vessel wielding tiny fingernails like pearls,

you moved toward Eve—no time for timid glances,

your sister’s foot was caught in serpent’s snarl.

Your full-of-child hands reached hers, reached the tree,

and by that hunger and reaching hand she’s free.