Perhaps at twelve, as Mary perhaps was,
I may have said yes out of love,
Or at least I would have thought that’s what it was.
Consent, to faith, is a strange drug.
When Gabriel left and silence fell,
And the impossible came to dwell
In such a space as small as me,
I may have felt the infinite
Reflecting on the price of love
That weds it to its opposite—
How could it ever (always) be
That women house such mystery?
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