Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

is anybody’s guess.

All I know is,

I had enough to last me

through the night.

Home again,

I hurry to my chamber.

My cloak barely hides

the changing contour

of my belly.

Soon enough I will look

as though I swallowed the moon.

I must tell Joseph

that the life nesting in me

was placed there by Jehovah.

But why would he believe?

What if, convinced I have broken

God’s holy law,

he drags me before the priest,

has me judged and sentenced

to be stoned?

What if-

The bloodied face of Salome

floats to the surface of my mind.

Stop it! Stop it!

I order myself.

Where is your faith?

Do you truly believe

God Almighty would bless you

to carry his son,

then stand idly by

while both your lives are taken?

I bow my head,

soak in the silence,

and wait for my heart to slow.

Lord, forgive me.

I know you will protect us.

Please ready me for

whatever trials lie ahead.

Wringing my hands,

I wait by the well

at the foot of the last tel

Joseph must climb

on his way home.

He is pleased,

though surprised,

to see me.

We trade holy kisses

and mount the hill in silence.

Joseph is the first to speak.

“What brings you out

to meet me?”

“Well, I-I, uhm-”

“Yes?”

I look around,

then lead the way

to a grove of olive trees

where we can be alone.

“Mary,” says Joseph,

“why are you being

so mysterious?”

“Joseph,” I whisper,

“do you believe in

the mysterious?”

Before he can answer,

I squeeze out the truth.

Once the words

are in the air,

Joseph stares at me, silent.

The weight of the pain

and doubt in his eyes

presses me to the ground

and holds me there

till I feel faint

and finished.

At long last,

Joseph finds his voice.

I tremble at the sound of it.

In pinched tones, he says,

“I care for you, Mary,

and will not turn you over

to the priest.

But come tomorrow,

I will give you papers

of divorcement.

You will then be free to go

wherever you wish,

only please,

go from here.”

A tear on his cheek,

Joseph turns his back on me

and heads for my father’s house,

our hearts blending

with the darkness.

God, you must be

mad as hell.

I made you a promise

and stomped on it.

Go ahead.

Tell me you’re angry.

I know I’d be.

Can’t stand to look at me?

That makes two of us.

My bed and pillow both

seem made of rocks.

There is no sleep to be found.

Even my thoughts toss and turn.

If I were still a little girl,

I could curl up next to Mother,

let her tell me

everything will be alright.

Lord Jehovah,

please be my mother

tonight.

Who will want me?

No more tight abs to show off

at the beach.

No slender waist to catch

a cute boy’s eye.

Four months and look at me!

Soon, I won’t be able to see

my feet anymore.

Or, I could be lucky

and stay pretty small, like all

the women in our family.

Yeah. Like I’ve been lucky so far.

Look at me! I’m hideous!

There’s not much to do about it

except cover all the mirrors

in my room,

and race past

all the rest.

I crawl into bed,

pull Mary’s words to my chin

like a warm blanket.

Her faith is so strong.

Maybe if I keep close

it just might rub off.

I rise

like any other morning,

inviting Jehovah

into my day.

“Shalom, Father,” I whisper.

Whatever waits for me

is at Jehovah’s choosing,

and I chose, long ago,

to put my trust in Him.

Joseph arrives at my door

before breakfast,

no parchment of divorce

in either hand.

“Mary,” he says,

eyes gleaming with new light,

“in the dead of night,

in the deepest heart of sleep,

an angel came

and told me

all the words you spoke

were true.

He said that

I should marry you

as planned.”

The sun and I stand still.

“And?”

I wait, and wait,

and wait until

Joseph, my Joseph,

sings out,

“I will!”

Alone on the rooftop,

I mourn the sunset.

I am in no great haste

to keep the promise

I made myself at sunrise:

to tell my parents.

If only Joseph’s angel

would speak to them first!

Joseph kindly offered

to stand with me.

Yet, I declined. This

I must do on my own.

But what words can I use

to convince my parents that

everything will be alright?

Raised in God’s shadow,

nursed on the Mosaic Law,

I have been a regular at Temple

all my life,

have daily listened to

my mother humming psalms

as she grinds meal for flatbread.

I have priests for kinsmen,

and am daughter to

a righteous man.

So how, Lord,

am I to tell my parents

that their unmarried daughter

is with child?

And once my words shatter

their dreams for me,

will they ever be able

to look me in the eye again?

I breathe deep,

descend the stairs,

and pull Gabriel’s words round me

like a cloak.

One look at my face

and my mother draws near.

“Mary? What is it, child?”

My tears come quickly.

“Oh, Mother!”

Ask me what I fear most:

my mother’s eyes

welling with disappointment,

wondering where

she’d gone wrong.

They watch me now.

They do not mean for me to notice,

but I do.

I wish I had some remedy

for their disbelief

and disappointment.

I cannot decide

which hurts worse.

These days,

I feel Mom’s eyes on me

every time I leave a room.

Some mornings,

she’s Lois Lane

grilling me over Frosted Flakes:

“I haven’t seen that shirt before.”

“Is that the new style,

shirt hanging out your pants?”

“Don’t girls wear belts anymore?”

“Honey, are you gaining a little weight?”

Sometimes, she’s Superman,

still as stone,

mum as Clark Kent,

but looking for all the world

like she’s got

X-ray vision.

That’s when I know

I can’t keep the truth from her

forever.

Lately,

every day after school

I speed-walk round the track

once or twice,

doing my best to dodge

all the boys warming up

for baseball practice.

So what if I can’t play

my own sport right now?

I refuse to grow

gross and flabby

just because.

Eyes straight ahead,

I charge past

a clump of kids

and leave them