by Gene Fendt
Mary, I dreamed of you last night,
or someone who spoke of you, full of grace;
And when you called from the road
the child came alive in my womb.
And Mary, you know this fig tree hasn't flowered
in over twenty years, but today
I woke from my dream and it was covered with blossoms.
They have quivered all morning with bees
Who cannot resist their sweetness; the courtyard is full
of the smell of creation, Mary, in six months
We shall have enough figs to feed the whole village.
And look, Mary, my long unsuckled breasts hold milk!
And before these blossoms fall my nipples will be as figs
in the mouth of my child. I have waited for this so long
That I had forgotten that I wanted it to happen.
Now it has and my husband is dumb with disbelief,
And I have more words than two tongues can utter.
Mary, what great thing is happening?
About the Author:
Gene Fendt teaches philosophy at the University of Nebraska. He has published scholarly work on Kant, Kierkegaard, Shakespeare, and Harold Pinter, and his poetry has appeared in several journals.
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