by Don Narkevic

The grinding millstone silent,
no turr-turr of turtledoves,
the cock still to crow,
and yet
I hear my daughter talking,
a fourteen-year-old, taking.
So, I peek behind the drapery 
that separates our bedrooms.
No oil lamp burns,
but a shaft of dazzling light
fills her room like gold. 

In Mary’s chamber
I hear a man’s strange accent,
a man I do not see.
Yet, I hear his voice 
as if in prayer to my child.
I should rouse my husband;
he might know what to do.

Her blankets rumpled, her cloak
draped from shoulder to floor,
Mary sits on the edge of the bed
like the brink of a cliff.
She folds her hands in her lap,  
a foot peeping, her eyes transfixed 
on that uttering sunrise, her face
a progression from dread, 
to bewilderment, astonishment, 
rapture, then submission,
like a flower following
the sun across the sky. 

What? Mary, a child 
with child? The son of God? 
A throne? A kingdom?
The words kindle a fire.
But a cold shiver ignites
a belief that the flames 
will try the faith of all 
and bear witness to our worth. 

---

Don Narkevic: Buckhannon, WV. MFA National University. Poetry appears in The Trillium, MockingOwl Roost, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Literature Today, and Spire Light. In 2022, Main Street Rag published a novella of poetry entitled, After the Lynching. In July, 2024, The Potomac Playmakers will produce From Birth, a one-act play.