The only takeaway I take from Christianity
is something so assiduously secreted, kept out
of sight, intently barred from any possibility of causing
what ecclesiastical authorities apparently had long ago
supposed would be the terrible traumatic repercussions
were the barest hint of it to be exposed, the slightest
trace of it observed, as if it were a lethal virus fated
to be cryogenically preserved; or evidence of life
on other planets, preternaturally iced. It’s simply this:
Our mothers never told us since no angel ever came
to scare them silly with the news – that the infant
they awaited was a dilly. The only mothers (one
discovers) who intuitively knew were witches. Alas,
few witches are around, or can be found, and fewer still
have babies. But finally, I’ve had the breathless pleasure
of uniting with a treasure of a witch’s grown-up child
(the sex we had was wild!): and from this witch-begotten
being I now know that we and you and everybody else
are constitutively a part of an incomparable family.
We travel endlessly in search of any other witch’s child,
or someone who would like to be - to join us for the ride –
and in our indescribably wild fun. Perhaps you’re one.
Look into a mirror. Are you beautiful? Do you glow?
That’s how you know.