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

Love a Tiny Thing

And the sweet smell of lilies and home drowns my senses, as in your manifold arms I find mercy, I the Lamb, you the Lion, and worn eyes that bespeak the gold of the Tabernacle and sandy skin like Jerusalem at dawn immolate me, all tan mountains and earth like providence, your tangling hair the brown of thorns. Roses bloom in the breaths between us, and Sharon and valleys bleed from our hearts, and for every regret birthed at the midnight hour, I'm crying out penitent tears and studying skulls in the desert wastes as you ascend into the firmament. The truth is you left me behind and walked up to the mount of the cosmos and then shed manna down on me in my travails, my hair grown long and red, and as I ripened with philosophies and gnosis and the lunar keys to the cardiac kingdom, you descended from the Throne when my time as desert philosopher was done and lifted me up to your lap, and I drank your wine, and you ate my bread, and we are always studying each other, my dearest Savior, my greatest cross to bear, my fig tree and mustard seed. Notice the small spaces between raindrops, in there find us dancing, in between grass blades, love is the tiniest thing.