White Straight Jacket

I was born into a white straight jacket
trying since birth to untie the twisted knots
invisible at first, unbeknownst to eyes untrained
seeing nothing but flinching every muscle straining
to be free, turning and unlearning the yearning
bestial at best, certain the cloak worn
held a dagger to my breast.

Fantasies of freedom cut away from straps buckled
tightly to my sides just out of reach untouched
teaching treading settling for a buckle here and there
loosened by persistence undaunted and galvanized
by hatred and love intermingled together tangled
like strings impenetrable to the naked eye spying
loose threads as beginnings of an ending
unseen as yet.

And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me?

Sheltering child within, womb covered by belly, bolts of cloth sewn to exact specifications, shielding the holy in the sacred darkness of human form. Forming child growing and groaning within, knowledge of the holy only known through mother's fluid bathing and breathing and resting, hearing only the echoes of an outside world, muffled brightness sounding like light wrapped in a warm moist blanket. Holy songs sung from without to ears only beginning to form. The light is sheltered in the holiness of shadow dwelling in solitude but never alone, presence permeating every ounce of being moving breathing not yet air, swimming in the womb of mothers' love secure.