Not long after we tasted myrrh and dream,
the image of lettered men still with us
and exhalations of Herod’s regime,
we heard grumblings, coughed whispers, treasonous
replies in the market, in the stables,
in furrows coursing by the house of bread.
They followed us through Rama, slick labels
we sidestepped, let go of, but could not shed
the cries heard once we arrived in Egypt.
Rachel’s voice like a river collecting
her tributary children. No gossip
or story could console us, just lamenting
gratitude for cover, for some odd price,
our hearts folding in on us, screams like ice.
This poem also appears in the December 2024 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 89, No. 12, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
