What if Mary didn’t want
her child to be special?
Maybe she did,
in the beginning,
when the word had only just
but didn’t her heart break
when he turned his family
away amid the crowd?
Wasn’t her heart pierced
as with a sword just as
the man at the Temple foretold?
Did she not, in that split
second when he met her eyes
and gave her John
wish she could take back her words,
Let it be?
Let this be?
Let this horror, this nightmare,
this ending of her soul’s beginning,
Let it be?
Could I ever be the mother
you are, Mary?
Can I ever look at my son
at his most broken and abandoned
Let it be.
Hill-born, a coal miner’s granddaughter, a brilliant spark of brain with a wee bit of crazy thrown in for good measure, a writer, a poet, a wife in the bizarre world of the church, wearer of silver tiaras and painter of purple toenails, I am me. Just me. Read more of Heather’s writing at Madame Rubies.
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