Mary (modern remix)

No vacancy -blinks- neon
(no room, no room)
no reservations, no room
even for pregnant women
(great with child)
from out of town.
Sweet Joe rushes about
cursing the Census Bureau
and its new "in-person"
methods of counting.
Best Western, Hotel 6, Holiday Inn
all full to overflowing,
no coat closets, laundry rooms
or cubby holes to crawl into tonight.
We explore the unseen
boundaries of plight.
My stomach is a sphere
a growing world
about to hatch
into a pained universe
under the star’s shadow.
The pickup slouches
into the dust it collected,
the tires groan
like beaten hoofs
into the earth.
Sitting mimics standing
in discomfort, I squirm
wondering if the next
rejection
offers a bathroom (at least).
A good man is hard to find,
much less, a righteous concierge
or night audit clerk.
Options shrivel and shrink
as city blocks blur beneath us.
Sidewalk mirages take shape
in mattress, pillow, sheet
but fade upon inspection,
cans and cardboard, lotto tickets.

Pain and labor,
labor in pain
a lone bulb illuminates
the concrete slabs
of our Self-Storage unit,
a humble accommodation.
Embarrassment the midwife
ushers in this little King
of boxes and furniture
the miscellaneous items,
of displacement (like us.)
With each push
I cry out, my voice
an echoing chorus
on aluminum siding.
My husband sweats in darkness
no longer fearful of angels
or gods, or HMO’s,
but quivering still
at the hour of arrival.

In his baby squawls,
we look for angels
and jump at nondescript
whispers. 
Cherubims or seraphims
should nanny him now
in rush of wing
and flutter of eye
(surely not I?)
My breath is caught up
in the winds
of doubt
as the curious arrive
from 7-11, Circle K, Dunkin Donuts
the shepherds of sweets,
coffee pots, and gasoline–
nomads of night.
Their eyes elliptic
ask questions
a mouth can’t scrawl,
they believed enough
to come, but doubt
the fragile truth
cradled across a newspaper
bin of wicker
wrapped in sweatshirts.

What next? I ponder,
tucked in my own
solitude and wonder.
Scientologists from the East
bearing Tom Cruise signatures
and crates of fruitcake?
Maybe we’ll just go,
hop a train
down to San Francisco
share our story
and spare change with hobos.
Maybe we’ll take the boy
and run, flee like Hermes
on wing, from politicians
dieting on their own rhetoric,
ready to brand us the Unfit parents.
Maybe we’ll find a way
to make it work
to raise a son
to pave a way
for the Messiah’s shoes
to trod.

But as I see his tiny hand
outstretched (and flailing)
visions unfurl like confetti
hammers fall with each flake
of colored paper
I am pierced again and again
through and through
as metal breaks bone
(oh, favored one)
and I am named
in that moment,
like his tender voice,
not yet heard,
calling out
now and forever
crying, "Mother."