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.