I was born from the
womb of time.
Stars clotted and splashed,
staining the bedsheets
with ruby moonbeams.
Her tears of pain baptised me with joy.
They talk of the bright star,
kings kindled the flames with spices,
but they forget the way she held my father’s hand,
her fingernails broke his skin,
palms bled.
“Hail Mary full of grace,” they pray
at births and deaths,
but my Mother is just as present
in the seconds before the test turns positive
or negative.
We drink a man’s blood cupped in gold,
as the melodies of the choir drown out the orchestra
of the gnashing of teeth in the laundries,
the 6am adorning of gender roles and mantillas,
and
the soft sobs of the girl who can never be a priest,
because instead of a church with a steeple,
she like my mother,
has a womb of time.
How would church policy change if the
aspergillum sprinkled the Masses with menstrual blood?