Birth of Isa

Sometimes I wonder
If Marium breastfed Isa,
If she cried out when he bit her,
Or if she sobbed when he would not latch
And sometimes I wonder if this is all too vulgar
To ask during a khutbah in a mosque full of men
Without milk stains on their shirts
Or coconut oil on their breasts
Preaching from minbar,
Which is off limits to the mother of prophet.
But then I think of feeding Isa, birthing Isa,
The expulsion of blood and smell of sweat,
The salt of a mother’s tear
Onto the soft head of the salt of the earth,
And I think if the vulgarity of birth is not
honestly preached
By men who carry power but not burden,
By men who carry privilege but not labour,
By men who carry authority but not submission,
Then miraculous birth of Isa without a father should not be preached at all
’cause the real scandal of the birth of prophet
Lies not in non-existence of father
But in the cracked nipples of Marium,
And not in the sermons of men,
Who say women are too delicate to lead.