Can a mother forget the babe at her breast,
who grew in her own Body and is sustained by it still?
Nuzzled close and warm,
milk-drunk smiles suggest no.
Aching fullness creates urgency the
fuzziest awareness cannot suspend.
Tender moments nurture intimacy,
embodied grace of Mother-love:
I will not forget you! See,
I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.
Nail-scarred hands ache, too:
O Jerusalem, killer of prophets,
how I long to gather you as
a hen gathers chicks under wing.