Roy Herndon Smith
I was almost due
when the Emperor decreed
the registration
of everyone in
the town they were from. Joseph
was proud to be of
the line of David.
He told everyone, “We will
go to Bethlehem.”
I was terrified.
It was a hard eight-day walk.
My belly was huge.
I went to my dear
Elizabeth, who told me,
“He is your husband.
You cannot say no.”
I went home to my husband.
I could not say no.
The pains were coming
when we got to Bethlehem.
It was dark. The inn
was full. There was a
stable. The rest’s like a dream
about someone else.
She screams, stills, screams, stills, screams, screams, sighs, stills, lies,
splayed in straw, flickering light, quiet night,
her baby on her breast with wide dark eyes.
Before, husband gone with the men, she tries
to hide, in straw, in the night, from her plight.
She screams, stills, screams, stills, screams, screams, sighs, stills, lies.
Without mother, sister, or friend, she cries
with strangers, in the night, in dusty light,
her baby on her breast with wide dark eyes.
Before, alone, ashamed, in pain, she sighs,
a woman comes, stays, holds her in her fright.
She screams, stills, screams, stills, screams, screams, sighs, stills, lies.
Women gather round, with bodies devise
a shield against returned men’s prying sight
of baby on her breast with wide dark eyes.
In the morning light, it’s time for disguise,
to clean the blood, to cover up with white.
She screamed, stilled, screamed, screamed. Now she sighs, stills, lies,
her baby on her breast with wide dark eyes.
dust 