Mary at the Nativity

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 palms 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.