Annunciation

By ALLISON ALBINO

I wonder if anyone ever asked Mary
if she wanted a baby? If she was fine
with skipping the sex and going straight

to pregnant? & when the angels 
announced she was to going to deliver
the son of god, if she didn’t think

Oh shit, how will I do that? How
did this happen? How will my body 
manage this:

a baby eternalized in oil & wood,
gold, gold, gold glinting over 
his head, offerings of more gold, 

his own disciples waiting outside under a sky
that is ocean reversed, its waves undulant
overhead, greedy hands. I wonder

if she knew it would constantly be 
about Him (with a capital H).
How they would praise Him, sing to Him

as she cradles him in her right arm, 
his cloth diaper wet, his baby face
already an old man’s, smiling; he’s hungry

for more milk. Would she have still chosen
to have him knowing that his cross
to bear was the cross? & knowing how 

he would be crucified, his body 
an extension of hers, his blood
coming from her rivers?

I wonder if she would have said,
Let another woman’s son suffer.
Not mine, not mine.

Allison Albino is a Filipina American poet and French teacher who lives and writes in Harlem. Her work has either appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, Lantern Review, Pigeon Pages, Poetry Northwest, Oxford Review of Books, Alaska Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She has received fellowships from the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley, the Fine Arts Work Center, and Tin House. She studied creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College and has an MA in French literature from NYU. She teaches at The Dalton School in New York City.

[Purchase Issue 21 here.] 

Annunciation

Related Posts

Washington Heights

November 2022 Poetry Feature: Anacaona Rocio Milagro

ANACAONA ROCIO MILAGRO
Because there weren’t any fireflies in the hood / as a child i imagined roaches were angels on a / mission. To save lives, they’d crawl into the mouths / of the chosen. Initially i found them disgusting. / They’d infest my Fruity Pebbles cereal. i’d pluck / them out

Image of the moon. Camera is focused on the moon against a pitch black background.

Klan Giant

TOMMYE BLOUNT
Look up here, the air is Aryan. The moon, / our white hood. Our life must loom large / above that which is darkened in our shadow. / A fate loomed long ago, ours // in the weft and warp of hems, / a lowered white curtain on this / re-coonstructed show

Black and white photo of a woman lying down in the grass.

Writing from the 2022 Outpost Fellows

STEFFAN TRIPLETT
Once again, I am at the whims of the weather. This must become a daily practice. In fear of things getting hotter, I’ve made myself too cold. Cold in a literal and figurative sense. I’ll spare you any false pretense: every move I make anticipates a climatic future.