The body shapes itself

comfortably in and out of fashion;

if she was the only virgin you could find,

why didn’t you at least knock?

Didn’t you see she was reading?

Her mind elsewhere?

Or was that order from Him,

that fling out of Heaven,

that rush of your own two wings,

the only thing on your mind?

Not that you forgot the message;

but when her body drew back,

when she looks back in alarm,

might you not have said, “Fear not –”

Or was this how He learned

to do it better next time,

in the fields, under the great stars,

a baby bawling down the hill?

It was from then, interrupted at her book,

we learned to see her as alone.

To be worshipped

is not the same as being loved,

and yet how tenderly loved she is,

whether she is in and out of fashion.