Weeping wood, burls of blood, I see an arc of ancestors,
a Jacob's Ladder from my Jesus' brow, back into Avram's
bosom. This tree without leaves will bear only gory fruit.
Water and wine, and these punctured feet I clutch, oh how
visceral the silver nails stab into Godly flesh, moldy bread.
They will say I was taken up by angels and did not putrify.
But penitent in the desert, I was a corpse, and my seven
devils taught me philosophy, arithmetic, divination, magic.
There is always a Sorceress at the heart of every story, a
prophetess, whether Daughter of Zion or Morgan Le Fay,
and at Bethany in my sister and I's house, Martha baked,
and I listened to Gospel, and I anointed with myrrh saved
for three years, cost a fraction of the tribulation to come.
And now the angel of my better nature is suspended between
what is and what is not, and I am Eve in his skin cloth, wasted.
I will drink my fill of Him in time, but grow old and cold.
At the foot of the cross is a shadow, it says, be fruitful and
prosper. But mine is a covenant of wicked delights, found
at epileptic fits and bipolar highs and lows, and only cool
hands of thunderclouds can ease my sorrows, in his Death
and Ressurection, there was a voice of mice within me: oh
Miriam: be bold. Live like Gabriel's trumpet is lowing, take
your words as swords and preach in the desert, they will
call you a whore and heretic, but my Qadesh was my goddess
once, and I Michael tell you, better to have tasted the parting
of love and buried your father, brother, and son, then to never
know the shadow of the cross.
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of Mary Magdalene: Poems from Christ's Wife
PoetryMary Magdalene writes on her love for Christ. And follows him to Hell. And back again. (A collection of poems, prayers, and meditations from the year I walked with the Lord.)