The laundry gets done every Sunday by my Mother,
She fondles my colors and my delicates to dry
While wrapping them like sins bound to an order.
The clergy scoffs at my unpaid indulgences 
While wishing that I’d deify every fault as ‘blood’. 
Must your Fatherhood limit me solely to this?

I am your daughter but I am your mortal Son
Who is a manifestation of what She could have been. 
When the nails unravel my dark brown pigtails on both sides,
Her veiled expression must recognize me as the manhood
That fills the cavity He is otherwise avoiding. 

Mary; you tell me that I speak in his voice subconsciously
When there is not enough mercy behind his mouth.
That when my lungs meet barbed caging in a familiar laugh,
You suddenly understand that I am a mere mock of his power.
How can I convince you that it comes from Eden?

When the hair on your head falls achromatic
And you are confined to gospel folklore;
My Elysian soil will catch your browning leaves
Turning you into the protector He meant to be,
And you can finally see He and I rotting together.
Finally, Mother, you can see me.