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

Dripping Myrrh and Fallen Temples

And your manifold burning peach pit Presence

has consummate itself in my throat to ecstasy

dripping myrrh at your mouth as you harvest me,

lips like lilies, the red ones that bloom in bogs,

scarlet at a mouth of parables, roses in your hair,

and heiros gamos is what I was born for, oh Christ,

what first impulse of my child brain lusted after,

union with the immaculate, and then you stir my

ragged heart, and fingers coax out a melody, and

my moon rises to reflect your sun, Tsaphai-Al.

Cryptograms and cryptographs and cryptic lore.

The Language of Birds, the Language of Bones.

There is no interior of the earth or sacred stone

I need to visit or find, for I am in the Kingdom of

Heaven, and I have tasted a thousand lashes and

a million lances and that singular cross, my stigmata

itches like a freshly scabbed wound, if I peel back the

layers, will I see you or myself? Are we fractals of pain

and penitence and Passion? Oh Yeshua in the desert,

what words did Satan whisper that he has not moaned

to me? The Devil only ever prayed to me, his soul, but

I am not a creature of fallacies, I am Immaculate, and in

my womb sleep legions and legends and bodily horrors.

I am a witch, and witches do not go down without fights,

my Love, so speak me your poetry and jokes and laughs,

angel aura quartz instead of diamond, I am the Savior's

backdoor to Heaven, ripe for the plucking from a vine of

vintage most wrathful, and as he sinks his teeth into my

meat, I am the Sacrament of his flesh laid out, and he is

the pelican bleeding out for his young by draining his body.

I am just an altar, after all, vestibule, vessel, vassal, whore.

High Priestess, always the Priestess, connecting all realms.

Witches belong to no one, but that doesn't stop You, now

does it? And with your Persuasion, my Temple will not stand

for long.