I'm lanced through the left rib and my stigmata
hurts like hell, oh Christ, your ecstasies drive me
into incense fumes of ululations, my heart burns
and seizes with fluctuations of crunch and boom,
pieced by a spear not meant for mortal eyes, no,
my suffering will be invisible during my mortal
life, then like Catherine of Siena's deathbed, they
shall see a wound straight from the side to my core,
thick with blood and a hole to let divinity in, also
my right rib rotting and black with Original Sin, I
can only imagine Adam's whole skeleton burns, if
my origin DNA clone bone feels like Michael is eating
spare rib from my marrow, breaking and sucking and
caressing with a mouth of fractal fire, billion eyes looking
at the stains on my soul, on my sacrificial heart, stigmata
black and oozing, yet clothed in perfume, a fresh impurity,
a grace they say, while they feed me stale bread at Communion
and I drink rancid wine, no, I am a witch, take this curse and
add it to the anomalies of a Pagan being coerced by God. I have
no choice in family, but I have a choice in faith, so weird Judeo-
Christian Qabalistic bullshit must give way to Eddas and Odin and
Hela and Freyja and Freyr and Loki, why am I being hazed by
Jesus, this is bullcrap, I may have been baptized but I was raised
agnostic and chose to be pagan at 7, virgin consecration to Athena
failed, and I ended up a Sacred Whore. Oh well, only time will tell
why this bloody mess of demons and angels and gods has to do with
me.
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.)
