Boys will be boys, the saying goes,
even if that boy will one day
age into Messiah. One would
never guess looking at this scene:
child prone on his mother’s lap, raised
hand about to strike his exposed
buttocks yet again. Is that why
he’s getting paddled, for mooning
the market sellers that morning
while his mother picked through a cart
of onions? They sneered with contempt,
“Nazarenes, surely.” Mary blushed,
recalling her own mother’s plea
to be the kind of woman whose
name never wagged on busy tongues.
After all these years nothing’s changed.
My mother wore that same red dress
to el mercado one Sunday
after church when I stayed behind
for a Christmas play rehearsal.
I, the archangel messenger,
to Mary: You will bear a son.
Virgin birth, the boys scoffed, daring
to toss their angelic undies
at the arms of a saint. The nuns
screeched at the disrespect and told
the mothers, who disciplined
their sons on the spot. But not mine,
which enraged the boys and displeased
the adults looking down at us,
sneering with contempt, “Son indios.”
My mother blushed, glassy-eyed and
conflicted—bad Indian or good
Catholic? I made the choice and hiked
my tunic up, bending over,
offering the righteous this gift:
the viewing pleasure of my ass.
Young Jesus lost his halo once,
claims the painting. I dropped my wings
and seized the scorn, little devil
me looking for the saint clinging
to my chonies like a relic.