Rap these old dichotomies

with the question of your knuckle–

You'll hear they don't ring true.

There's Mary, virgin mother,

passing through children to childlessness

on the road to Bethelehem

veering off to Calvary.

She's clung

and flung

the very same son

the very same son

both loved

and left her.

She's crossed lines

and studied their intersection

                     +

 two dimensions at odds

even on a single plane.

Mary–

the spouse her husband

would not have married

Mary–

the mother crazed

by the madness of her son

Mary–

the lily snake-charmer

and apocalyptic general

marching down these springtime

days of May,

drafting every able body

into the revolution

that one silent night

opened up her womb.