Baby Einsteins

She found herself in an interesting state,
an expectation, with child.
Was it a vision, was it faith, the angel
seemed so real, so brilliant, so heavenly;
but in a state of grace and weakness,
the reality of containing the whole universe
inside herself, the hope of every thing,
of every ant and lion and eagle and man;
maybe it all seemed a bit much, and the leaning,
the missing shoulder of her betrothed, her tears,
like the quandary, like Elijah’s whisper,
the awful doubts after the brilliant victory,
with enemies chased and broken,
a brave face for the crowds,
no one likes a sad face in a victory parade,
but in those quiet moments we exercise,
exorcise, pray, lift up every weakness,
every forgotten hope, every potentiality,
each forecast whispered to us in the stillness
of our first bassinet, while Tchaikovsky plays
to develop prenatal brain cells for Baby Einsteins.

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