Incarnation

Kate Bluett

She grows
round, a slow trans-
figuration. Some days it
seems she has always been waiting;
sometimes the immanence bewilders her.
The hidden confounds her, its stillness terrible,
its movements swift and sudden, joy dancing
on her inmost nerves. She waits to see him at last,
hold him, take him in her hands, receive him.
Present now, he will then be visible, glorious
to behold, his voice a clarion heard by all.
She waits. One day he will be here,
warm and breathing, sweet
and strangely
small.