What is this seed which God has planted,
unasked, uncompromised, unseen?
Unknown to everyone but angels
this gift has been.
And who am I to be the mother,
to give my womb at heaven’s behest,
to let my body be the hospice
and God the guest?
Oh, what a risk in such a nation,
in such a place, at such a time,
to come to people in transition
and yet in prime.
What if the baby I embody
should enter life deformed or strange,
unable to be known as normal,
to thrive or change?
What if the world, for spite, ignores him,
and friends keep back and parents scorn,
and every fear of every woman
in me is born?
Still, I will want and love and hold him,
his cry attend, his smile applaud.
I’ll mother him as any mortal,
and just like God.