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

Hesitance

And David sang Hallelujah for the Almighty,

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – two out of three

have stolen my blood and bone and vision,

the Mother, the Lamb, yet Yahweh is Deus

Absentia (or is he, Deists be Damned?) The

Ghent Altarpiece shows the King of Kings,

and He terrifies me, I brim with hesitance,

when I am swept up into rapturous melody

and the fire of the Presence, like Moses and

burning bush, like the white of the Savior and

pure glory blazing with the musk of the stars,

the phallic lingam that pierces my heart in some

kind of flowering love song about myrrh dripping

lilies and rose thorns that penetrate witch's spleens.

What awaits in the interior of the Earth? What is

in the sulfuric chamber of Caligrosto's apple snake arrow?

Michael and Samael united in the Green Lion are bleeding

gold from the sun, but how much ichor does He have before

the seas rise, and the climate boils, and methane and carbon

raze the pitiful human populace to ash? We have forty years,

exactly, until the Rapture, or maybe it's twelve, or four, or three.

Maybe it's already Rapture, maybe we didn't notice the dead.

And the End is but a breath and then swords at mouths and

sisters take brothers and mothers take sons and incest and

bloodshed and Grigori eating the babes reigns in havoc and turmoil.

(I am running out of time. How do I climb the mountain burning hearted alone?)