At first I didn’t believe her.
After all, who could feature it?
Her mother, Anne, came to me
wringing her hands and bewailing
the condition of her daughter.
Saying I don’t know how it happened.
Well, I told her. I know how.
How else? Divine visitation?
Hardly. More likely that muscled
young laborer you hired to help
your husband. Looks like he helped himself.
Outwardly, I agreed to no shame.
After all, who could have rightly faulted her?
I was old, even then, and not handsome.
Not a catch for any woman, my hands
rough from sanding and shaping wood.
Inwardly, I railed at her. Cursed her
for her rejection of me. Wished her
pain beyond comprehension.
Cryptic images filled my dreams,
disturbing my nights, haunting my days,
until the great wings unfurled
beside my bed, recounting all,
showing both the wish and the curse