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Broadside of Jesus Falls the First Time by Joseph Bathanti.

He came late to walking and I fretted
lest the blue yield of my virginity
was flawed in marrow and sinew whetted
by innocence whelping Divinity.
He could speak, but refused. He knew His name,
knew Iscariot was His betrayor,
the psalter’s archive portending His fame,
had committed to memory Isaiah.
His first toys were hammer, nails, adze and awl,
His own apprentice bench from which he pitched
and split a cleff above his eye, a fall
that would have killed another child. I stitched
my pretty baby while he read a poem
about bands of angels bearing him home.