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

Hosanna

I render my womb up to the divine, to an archangel
who fructifies the sleeping generations of Newton's
apple seeds, fall like gravity into love, my darkness
has become light in Christ's immaculate hands, and oh,
hosanna spiral fractals like the petals of a lily, I
dreamed last night of golden lilies emerging from mud,
brackish filth waters having something of sunlight,
and as Michael-Christ cradled me last night, he reached
inexorable hands deep into my heart and palpitated all
shadows and illness out of me like arterial fires, the
chambers of that cursed organ made good, like carving
wood, for he is a carpenter and shepherd of men, there
is not much left of my fear, in fact, ego is good as
unconditional love, and I am God's servant, Watchtower
Girl, and I will play your Mary Magdalene and Jophiel.
I sing and dance and bleed parables of your wrath, too
much heaven on their minds, twas beautiful and grows
into rose gardens, can't you see I am a martyr just like
Michael on the cross, human to redeem his Original Sin
of that first War. The Devil does not repent, and hence
he is doomed to bellies of dust and serpent scales, but
Michael is a lion with a bloody paw behind my back, my
guard and Savior, and I have chosen redemption and New
Jerusalem, not black and pitch and despair. Oh Christ,
oh Michael, do but say the word, and I will be your
standard-bearer, spymaster, general, Herald of Hell.

There is nothing in me that is not yours, oh Gloriana.