Blessed Virgin

Leda, when Helen leapt 
in your womb was it 
like this? Ankles swollen 
under the weight 
of a dove? The gift of 
God nauseates, 
spasms my body with tears 
and pain. I bear the cross 
looks of judgment 
from my husband. 

You felt a Swan 
quake. Why couldn’t I 
have felt that 
touch: fingers tangled 
in hair, as rocking 
crescendos to chaos 
of nerves, ripping 
a prayer from my lips? 

That prayer presses down 
on my hips; my husband 
stares at my swollen 
body beneath unstained sheets.