Sonnet of a Pregnant Virgin

My mother, see! Your hands are claws of ice
Please warm them at my flaming heart and hear:
While morning puke suggests a sacrifice
of my virginity, no man crept near
my bed. Your tears are streams that doubt I’m true;
They’re rivulets of question marks that cry,
“This shame will shadow you down avenues
of death. My daughter! Why, oh why, oh why?”
Be still, my dear. This seed is heaven sent
I’m shadowed only by the Most High’s grace
I’m dirt, but in His holiness He’s lent
His Son to me, the sod that bears His face.
Through weeds of sin, my soul does praise the Lord
And says, “Be it according to thy word.”