in most versions I am 
impossible,
 
flesh immolated by the hot voice 
of a calling angel:
 
not sybil, never a throat for any wise 
man or lord’s speech, 
 
though I too was once congealed 
blood, a mere clot,
 
and I too became a clump 
of sinew, then grew a body of man
 
though I am 
no man nor prophet,
 
not an oracle nor beautiful 
enough to tongue a slip of revelation. 
 
my hair is palmed and pulled,
my form lithe, obedient and so kept 
 
vacant. I heed all commands.
 
I bear the brunt, someday 
even a child, and once a mother 
 
paradise will beckon 
from beneath my ordinary feet. 
 
no, not mouthpiece, but gaping 
cervix, marrow blown from the hollow 
 
neck of a bone, though still 
a message worth hearing.