25 Weeks: A Sonnet

I thought I would be more scared of the breaking open. 
I thought the since-childhood maternal urge and the
birthing hips and the deep wanting might mean the pregnancy
would be one of those easier ones. Meant to be 
or something. Hah. I thought I’d feel powerful, goddesslike
in my big-bellied Venushood. I thought, I thought.

I think now about inelegant miracles. I burn frankincense and the living 
room is still just the living room — unholy. I think about water, wonder 
if mine will break on its own. If I stood before the Red Sea, it would 
not have moved. The parting of my own legs, the rushing out between 
them, only that small exodus might be mine. I am small and without prophecy.
For me, no burning bushes. Lazarus stays dead at my touch. 

My motherhood not Mary or Sarah, but dust. Beautiful dust. 
Full of love and sickness. And enough.