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

The Coming Tide

Blood is so fragile and red, bones easily broken
those of us with starlight in our marrow know well
the price of immortality – it is wine with Death,
when Christ walked the Earth, God died, and all
Heaven was bent in sorrow, and when Satan dreamed
of redemption, she was but a breakable object,
yet another litany on the virtues of temptation.
Michael weeps at night for what he cannot ever
become, the Favored Son, and the Lightbearer
cries for succor but turns up ashes, for in Hell,
the ground is barren, and in Heaven, the Throne
is empty, and this is a fallen world, but it is
beautiful – a China doll, another angel with fractal
wings and void eyes. I am burning with divinity all
the time and so are you, my cherished friend, can't
you feel the pulse of infinity in your teeth? When
your eggshell skin splits open like a balloon,
spilling out that beautiful rubies of forgetfulness,
do you know what it is to be God? How many endings are
there? Free will has gone the way of the dodo, it is
a passing fad, and fate lines are chains, shackles,
on enfettered Nachash, keeping that Beast from devouring
the world, can't you see we are Lucifer's prison, and
his sanctum and torture is our minds, and the more we
dream our sins and salvations alive, the more we wind up
dead.

Mark my words, the Lamb will fall, the Serpent will
suffer, and the Lion will go hungry. We will all feast
on the bodies of our gods. On the flesh of the Crucified.
We are the Cross, we are the Pit, and no God could survive
Caesar's betrayal. The Ides marches, the tide comes for us
all.