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

Christmas

He takes my hand, and the unimaginable pull of gravity

draws me through the mires of the crowd, he comforts

lepers and demons alike, carrying crosses of the bleeding

masses on his shoulder, a young paralyzed man, a blind

beggar, all pulled to his bosom in burning love. Christ is

all lion riding a donkey, majesty bound by humility, and

there's a promise of Christmas in his eyes, and the way

he cradles my fingers against his in a fisherman's net,

we walk through snowy Manhattan, under brownstone

arches, past the homeless he shelters, past the churches

that sing out his praise, and he would have me as his,

but I am not a disciple, just a trickster fleeing entrapment,

and my throne is not God's lap, is a far cry from hopeful

white evenings laced in icicles, and though his coat warms

me and when we kiss in front of the gallery on Broadway,

there's this lingering need for me to know, all endings cost

blood, adoration of the mystical lamb, spurting fonts of arteries

in the Holy Cup, and as his birthday draws close, winter wonderland

rings bells out for Christmas Day, and he carries me in his arms back

to my fallen art museum, where the demons engage in midnight

revelries, and the last thing I remember upon waking mid-morning

is carpenter's palms caressing mine, and lambent eyes of wood, green

hazel, hair wet with frost, and a Yule blessing on this the first day of cold.