Maybe it happened this way…

All She Has

I walk behind a donkey that Mary lays over. 

The pains are coming quicker. Joseph runs 

up to the Inn. “Busy, not full,” but then 

the man hears Mary’s cry of pain and quickly 

changes his mind. He doesn’t want trouble. 

Joseph starts to argue,  but then behind 

the man, his wife pushes him aside. 

“Give way,” she says. 

She sends the men to clear out the barn 

and sends her daughters to get blankets. 

As I help Mary to the barn which is big and warm 

and private enough for her screams, 

the women come in to set the scene. 

They bring candle light and comfort.

The men wait outside.

Inside, I hold Mary in my arms and let her 

squeeze my hand. Between her legs, 

the wife guides the baby’s head.

An old woman wipes Mary’s face.  

Two others give leverage to her pushing feet.

All their voices, a song she can’t quite hear as

the baby is born into a room full of women. 

As he cries for the first time, it is women 

who hear and comfort him. These women 

who cry and laugh and celebrate,

not because he is the messiah 

but because every child born is worth 

celebration and tears. It is a woman 

who wipes the blood and cuts the cord.  

A daughter wraps him in one of her 

old dresses, swaddling him 

and laying him on his mother’s chest 

where his tongue roots for her, 

hungry for all she has to give him.