All Madmen Once Lay Helpless

All madmen once lay helpless in the arms
of someone. All killers cooed and cried.
When infants draw our joyful tears it's not
because we know what they will do or be
but for what's possible, what goodness and grace
have not yet been ruled out.
They've not yet chosen hate.
And could we see the thing
with clarity we'd struggle with despair
and what could be the saving beauteous face
would founder in suspicion. A gauzy
light preserves our hope.

This is why we are blind to the tale's
preposterousness though we have heard and read
it all our lives. Two chronologies scarcely
arouse notice, though neither
roots the lineage of the babe in history.
The questions we would ask of any other
go unasked. If virgin-born, who cares
about his step-dad's parentage?
And why aren't they alike
in numbers or in names?
You'd think all four would
speak of it, and Paul
would find it fit to cite
the Second Adam's birth
without the tainted
sin-seed of the First.
A minor note, perhaps, but first to last
the rest is all the same. Count any line
of stitching and find in the patchwork
the movements of a clumsy needle.
The whole tapestry unravels at the pull
of the least thread.

Observed from a safe distance
the myth is as alive as when you were five. Come
close for any length of time and all the colors fade.
By squinting we can see what saints or scholars rarely do:

Each birth is beautiful,
each infant is the word made flesh
who, wordless, speaks our name,
each mother marvels
at the painful miracle of what was
and is and is to come,

each father is a clueless Joe
who, when it comes down to it,
doesn't really know.