Ave Maria

No, our mother’s love isn’t divided
between us, it’s not that she paraded
my brothers and me before the king.
But there is something about thrones,
the sword heavy in Solomon’s palm.
They remind me of the absent child,
the daughter who died at midnight;
my mother on the floor, sobbing.
Call my mother Eve; call her Mary
at the foot of the cross, call her
the first woman. Call her the mourner.
But also call her my mother. She keeps
the nighttime vigil, and when she prays
to you for mercy, I beg you to say yes.