It took you half a year to notice,
months after the tree burned
and ornaments nestled in the closet
for a long summer’s nap.
Like most women, I’m worshiped
one day, forgotten the next.
I watched your gaze stumble
on our olive nativity while scanning
the shelf for Marie Howe.
Shirtless, you hid your breasts
by instinct. As if Joseph and I hadn’t
watched you making love all this time,
making love and no baby. He and I
still haven’t talked about it—
love or the baby. Some woodworker
kept us strangers, the manger
a silent gulf. Perpetual virgin,
I bend down and reach for a god
I cannot hold. You and I have that
in common. But when your lover
rests his calloused hands around
your waist, when you arch your back
and sigh, you’re coming closer
to the divine than I ever will.
You’ve taught me nothing
of children, blessing or burden.
But in case one day God loosens
our limbs, lets the baby sleep
so we are alone—show us again
how he should touch me.
by Whitney Rio-Ross
Whitney Rio-Ross is the author of the chapbook Birthmarks (Wipf & Stock) and the forthcoming collection thunder makes us (Belle Point Press 2026). Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Image, ONLY POEMS Daily, Rust & Moth, Relief, the minnesota review, and elsewhere. She lives with her husband and dogs in Nashville, TN.
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