The Diary of Mary Magdalene: Poems from Christ's Wife

Where Was Your Watchman?

By the shores of Galilee, in Acts, after I thought you a gardener

in Gethsamane, stone rolled away as the angels cried dead bread

and maggots no more, the worms of Hades crawl blessed in soil

under the leaves you pluck, cursed figs still sweet on Yeshua's lips,

the sand is bright, the waves lap like a man at his women's sex the

white shore, and my footprints besides yours are washed away in

lunar tides. We sit sewing cloth for the disciples, shrouds to remember

you by, and I Magdalene witnessed you first rise from the grave, held

you close as I burbled a brook pouring from your heart, and Rabboni,

you said: Woman, do not cling to me. Were you teaching me how to

grow old without you? The sun is setting, Rabboni, the ocean wind

is salty like a fish, and I crave only your blessing, and I want only you.

Thousands of years pass, but somehow the memory is fresh as a wound.

I rub salt in my stigmata, salt of the earth, light of the world, and I wince,

and I starve, and I beat myself scourged, a festering pus-filled whore,

and I am only ruined out of love for you, your qadesh, o my Lord.

So quickly, cast the seas to drown me on the shores of Galilee.

I would but swim in your enigma, and drown in your undertow.

Fisher of men, take the reel, hook my mouth, and pull out

an Alleluia. I have Hosannas enough for all time. I have thread

and needles for our garments of skin, and it all began

in a

Garden.

Right?