The angel said there would be no end
to his kingdom. So for three hundred days
I carried rivers and cedars and mountains.
Stars spilled in my belly when he turned.
Now I can’t stop touching his hands,
the pink pebbles of his knuckles,
the soft wrinkle of flesh
between his forefinger and thumb.
I rub his fingernails as we drift
in and out of sleep. They are small and smooth,
like almond petals.
Forever, I will need nothing but these.
But all night, the visitors crowd
around us. I press his psalms to my lips
in silence. They look down in anticipation,
as if they expect him to spill coins from his hands
or raise a gold scepter
and turn swine into angels.
Isn’t this wonder enough
that yesterday he was inside me,
and now he nuzzles next to my heart?
That he wraps his hand around
my finger and holds on?