The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception

is almost always closed. More good news: no place
to kneel, no place to leave off applications,
though also no place for asking how in the world?

Hail, Queen Spermicide Dodger! Hail, Mistress
of the Quicker than Quickie! Hail, nothing close
to a virgin, of the messy-as-all-get-out birth!

Soiled diaper of the morning, shit enshrin’d!
O half-pint half drank, make speed to the help
of humankind. O my quiver, my queen of puppies,

mother of all goats and one purple unicorn. Mistress
of the aphid, who forsakest no one and despiseth no one
(except her brother, mostly when he swipes—except

her brother, when he swipes). Look upon me
with an eye of pity, o gherkin who’ll soon be grown,
for I am the one who washes thine blueberry-stained bibs,

who droppeth to her knees to wipe up the milk
and the meat. Celebrate with devout affection
thy holy and immaculate conception, which by the way

is actually the story of bypassing a dousing
of Non-Oxynol 9. So, hereafter, by the grace
of Him whom thou, liveth and reigneth in perfect

purple and orange plaid skort. Hail, munchkin
most moist! Hail, seven furry caterpillars, the table
scribbled with brown and blue ink. Hail, new word: ant.

O perpetual snot! O paperclip in your mouth!
O gate you’re stuck behind (with good reason)!
O lost marbles! O pure arc from changing table

to bathtub, fair rainbow of stench. Hail and dwell
in the highest, hail purity, which lasts about two seconds.
My lily among bits of plaster, dying parsley, keeling over

kale, spent tomatoes. Thanks to you, dear bombardier,
I’m the mother of mercy. Thanks to you I give hope
to the guilty. You with your three pink blankets,

you with your avocado smears, you drooling olives.
Me with my need to straighten, my need for quiet,
right here in this little office, this little

immaculate office, where a healthy glob
of pharmaceutical this-and-that couldn’t stop you.
O rage! O sperm! O last of my healthy eggs!

Here where we cooked you up
like a cherry-almond tart—cinnamon, flour, butter
(1 ¼ cold unsalted sticks). Coarse crumbs worked

to a ball. Let us pray, holy girl, though not
in martyrdom’s palm; let us pray, enthralled.