The Three-Breasted Carol

Then Joseph flew in anger, in anger flew he,

Let the father of the baby gather cherries for thee!

Nor did the Son of God cease in his humiliations of the old

man, the Nobody of Galilei, not when Mary pled, “Joseph,

Joseph please, buy me bread! My breasts have run all dry.”

But Joseph had waited for this moment. He had hidden a

roll within the folds of his cloak for many days and would

not be caught in naked resentment ever again or be reminded

of his impotence, of having to look but do not touch, even

though he could feast his eyes upon her flesh every time she

bared it to nurse the thing. So, he showed them the roll and

the bite mark, which he delivered like a blow, the piece he

spat on the way back to the stable, for it was already as green

as the serpent who planted the delicious thought. “The boy,”

said Joseph, “should learn to share.” And with that the suck-

ling’s lips broke red as any blood from the exertion. It did

not wail but regarded the bite with a sidelong look, as Jo-

seph’s black nails all met the way flies crowd on carrion. It

wailed not as Joseph crushed the bun into a pill of bread.

“That is my miracle,” said Joseph. “Is there any less to share?”

But the pretty baby only looked away with the same sidelong

look. With his little finger, with the smallest, the pearliest of

his nails, which could still smart one’s eyes, with just enough

hesitation for Joseph to get a good look in, he touched the

bare spot, where his mother’s heart beat loud above even the

animals lowing in foreboding. There appeared a third breast,

one full between two dugs. “No!” Mary cried—“Freak!” Jo-

seph—and “Lo!” the Angel of God. He consoled her then

and there. He made a like excuse, “this is how the Son of

Man shares, not by making less to see, but by making more.”

After the Gospel of the Pseudo-James