I can’t point to the place that hurts most.
No bruise or swelling,
no angry rash or cast—
it’s closer to a cervix
opened beyond its bounds,
crowning, a jagged tear
through muscle. Blood
pools in secret places; unspooling
nerves tangle in a crooked seam
as pain is stitched
into every fitful sitting.
If God had asked Sarah
to make an offering of Isaac,
she would have laughed.
No march up the mountain.
No need for a ram in the thicket.
No obedience unto death.
God knew he better ask Abraham.
And we know better
than to be another Mary,
giving our son to die
for someone else’s sin.
Because this world
asks too much of mothers.
This world makes mothers
watch their children hang on trees
that do not lead to salvation.
This world makes us
anoint our children for burials
that will not end in resurrection.
–
Marissa Glover teaches and writes in Florida, where she is co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa’s work has been published in Rust + Moth, First Things, Sweet, and SWWIM Every Day, among other journals. Follow her on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.