by Jen Hunt, from the archives
Was the manger made of wood?
Sawed and jagged, cut and grooved
Sagging, splintered, piercing through
Clawing at an unseen wound
Branch, lifting a fair one higher
To the flame and to the fire
Was the manger stone, you say?
As marble seeped in sorrow, gray
Rough, like pavement traveled often
Quiet, as an empty coffin
Mortar for a fatal pestle
Doomed to crush the sole Begotten
Was the manger holy fodder?
Cupped hands lowered from the Father
Falling from his lonely bosom
Hanging like a beggar’s palm
Opened bare to spear and shadow
Holding light for every man