I imagine that when Mary felt the first
small twinge of morning sickness, what she thought
was stomach flu or last night’s shrimp and not
that some bizarre vindictive god had cursed
her womb. Or all the Greeks those gods coerced
to bear their muscle-headed young! (There ought
to be a law, some liberal said.) We’ve got
ourselves an age of prophets. They’re the worst.
Injustice is the utter end of some
aggregated culmination of
an entrail-excised, data-modeled flock
of captive birds. The emperor is dumb
enough to buy it retail. The priests love
their mark-up. They bill each sparrow like a hawk.
Jacob Bacharach 
Really, Jacob – you can discount my comments cause you know I’m a fan, but this is miles beyond most if not all of your sonnets that I’ve seen. First of all, you’ve jolted yourself out of a prosodic rut you seem to have let a couple of wheels fall into.
Second, some excellent turns of phrase in here – you know what they are so I won’t bother mentioning them.
Third, more opaqueness than usual toward the end, which is a good thing. Some of your past work has suffered because it could be characterized as a poetic elaboration on a pretty straightforward theme. Here, it’s not clear that you yourself knew precisely what you wanted to say, and the piece benefits from that apparent uncertainty.
Anyway, I’ll leave you with a question somewhat relevant to your theme:
Caliban Muses on The Second Coming
If doing beasts
is bestiality,
was Mary’s crime
celestiality?
Now I’m in the car by myself, ah, talking to myself. That’s chaos.
Now that Rachel’s had her 15 minutes of grandstanding for the network that had a memo appear in its lap, she can go back to equally important “wonk” policy discussions about how to divvy up the paltry leavin’s of the booty without losing the freedom to be able to one day say that she did a segment on this, and Hitchens’ memory can cry out from the idea of his rotting corpse that at least our priests let her parade around unveiled and smartly made up.