the virgin is no virgin. she has lain with the sufferings. she is Christ crucified by the pox of rubella. at the hour of delivery she always feels the life within her turn to an alien mask, a stone, burning stillborn. the virgin is no woman. her uterus has turned convex; it has sprouted a feathered cock, a coat of many colors, a spear to drive in the side of man, Christ crucified on the cross. the blood that arches, that sings in gurgles and dances in the dust — that blood from his side is enfolded on the wind and made into a womb, a portal for the race. and from that portal march black ants armed with the idiocy of soldiers . . . they encamp in her pubic hair, and, oh lovely virgin! she bends and blesses them with a kiss.