It’s almost June; he’s been bombarded
by bombs bursting in the air and he’s
thinking about the stinking, shit-filled
straw on the floor in some place that
wasn’t Bethlehem, but for the sake of

continuity between prophesy and fulfill-
ment he concedes. It’s really not to the
point. There is blood and placenta leak-
ing into the straw and the swaddling
clothes, too, are filled with a lot of

bodily fluids that need to be taken out
back and burned or, at the very least,
buried. Mop it up and put all the bodily
fluids in the ground. God sits around
chewing on a bit of umbilical cord be-

fore it, too, would be burned or buried,
wondering about what had been done —
all the blood, piss, shit in the straw
soon to be buried. Would anyone get it?
The baby screams. The man mutters.