inside of me,
strengthen him
in every way.
We sit in the evening glow
of oil lamps,
plucking names from the night
like figs,
as if we needed to.
But why not?
This is precisely what
expectant mothers do.
So, for a moment,
we pretend God has not
already chosen our sons’ names.
“Eli has a nice sound,” I say.
“Or Ezekiel,” says Elizabeth.
“I like Tobias.”
“Too plain.”
“Uriah?”
“Never!”
“You are right.
Things did not
turn out well for him.”
“Here is one, then: David,”
says Elizabeth.
“Like the king,” I say.
“Like your ancestor.”
“The one through whom-”
“Messiah will come,” we both say,
and something in me quivers.
I excuse myself for the night,
needing to lose myself for a while
in the world of sleep.
I hug my quiet kinsman,
Zechariah,
and wish Elizabeth well,
though I hardly need to.
The blessed birth of her son
is only a few
weeks away at most,
and she is blissful.
I leave her in the able care
of her midwife,
and say my last good-byes.
Lord Jehovah,
make the months fly
until we are together again,
until her little John
meets my Jesus.
Entering Nazareth, once again
we come upon a riotous crowd,
closed tight around
someone, or thing.
We cannot tell
till Nathan, our neighbor, yells,
“Harlot!
You thought you could
break God’s law, and live?”
We next hear
stone striking bone.
A girl screams and I,
unblinking,
push into the crowd,
elbowing my way up front
just as limestone brick
splits the girl’s skull,
sending blood rushing
like a wild river,
flooding her eyes, her nose,
splattering her once
rosy cheeks.
I peek, now,
from half-closed lids,
wondering what holds me here,
why I continue to stare
at this poor, crumpled girl,
writhing in pain until death
rescues her, a girl I knew
as Salome, young wife of Hillel,
a girl who so easily
could be-
“Mary!” Joseph’s servant
reaches my side.
“Let us leave this place,” he says
and I let him pull me away.
Wordlessly, we head home.
But I carry this girl’s
wretched screams with me,
like a splinter throbbing
in my ear.
I begged the nurse
not to call my mom,
said I probably just had
food poisoning, or something,
and apologized for crying
like a big baby.
The nurse shook her head,
put the phone down,
looked me in the eye, and said,
“Mary Rudine, my guess is
you’re less than
three months along.
Take my advice:
Tell your mother before
she figures it out
on her own.
You shouldn’t try
handling this alone.”
I dropped my eyes,
grabbed my books,
and ran.
Coach says
I have none
since I’m leaving the team
at the end of the season,
just before the biggest game.
“You looking to play
in the city club off-season?
‘Cause I gotta tell ya,
this ain’t the way
to hold your spot.”
What can I say?
Sorry, Coach, but I can’t play
because I’m pregnant?
Forget it.
So I just shrug and leave Coach
shaking his head.
And when Sethany finds out,
she stares me down
like I stabbed her in the back.
But I’ve got no choice.
I can’t tell them why.
I can’t even
tell myself.
They ache.
This morning
strapping on my bra
causes way too many
decibels of pain.
If anyone so much as
bumps into me,
they’d better plan
their eulogy.
Any day now
my period will start.
Any day now
menstrual cramps will crush
the kernels of fear
quickly greening in me
like saplings.
Any day now
I’ll be plain old fifteen again,
a girl passing silly notes in class,
giggling at the sight
of condoms.
Cake or no cake,
I knew I was too old
for wishing.
I study myself in the shower,
unable to deny
my breasts are bigger,
just like they show you
in those sex-ed movies.
I hold them up,
figure they must be
a 36B now.
It’s almost funny.
I used to wish for this.
Why do I even bother
leaving the bathroom?
Leaving home?
I might as well
hang a sign around my neck:
Warning: Steer clear.
Girl about to barf.
I hope Mom doesn’t make a habit
of coming home early.
“I know the regular season’s over,
but doesn’t your volleyball club
practice today?” she asks.
Here’s where lying
would come in handy.
I try another tack,
pretend not to hear her,
then hurry to my room,
calling over my shoulder,
“Homework!”
What else would you call it?
I know girls
who have sex every day
and walk away.
Me, I break God’s law once,
and look what it gets me.
If this isn’t punishment,
I’m missing the point.
But then I think of Mary,
who God gave a baby
just because he wanted to,
and she didn’t do anything wrong.
So maybe punishment
is not the point
after all.
I don’t know, Lord.
I don’t know anything, right now.
Color me confused,
and scared.
I feel like
one of those ladies
in the commercial
about allergies.
She’s walking around in a fog,
and everything is fuzzy,
especially around the edges,
and no matter
how many times she blinks,
nothing seems clear.
That’s how it is for me.
I don’t want anybody
to notice, though.
So I try to smile
when I catch anyone
looking at me,
and I keep going
through the motions.
I used to love
the full-length mirror
on my bedroom door.