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

The Magdalene's Cross

This is my Gospel, this is my passion, this is my heresy.
Christ-Michael resplendent in raiment of the Lamb, sword
of fire and mouth of roses pressed in wedlock to my sex,
a river of molten gold from New Jerusalem the manna of my
weeping arms, a Crucifixion of the mind, and shadows and
tender brush of white wings purifying me of my demons. I
think of your beauty and rapture and then Jah tenderly
kisses away all my doubts, I am Mary Magdalene in the
wastes, your Lilith, your Whore, oh Christ, whose gristle
and Sacrament made me heady with violets and adamantine.
Could we start again please? Judas weeps out guts, Peter
jangles his keys, I have Seven Devils when all I want is
the touch of God, and in me, lays the way to your Heart,
the silver lunar key, I shall lead the flock back to Heaven,
I will restore balance and wed the darkness in me, thus
breaking open like new china to let in the light, seep into
my cracks like rain water, oh Michael, oh Yeshua, and you
haunt me with the Holy Ghost, and my limbs are splayed
across your cross, and I want to scream and shout, I want
to immolate myself on your Sacred Heart, eat down your
providence and become nothing more than the Shekinah, the
Shekinah descended into Hell and wed Sammael, she fled the
destruction of the Temple, the Bride in Exile, Israel awakened.
My womb is tender and in me lays the sleeping generations.
My mind is a field to be tilled and planted by the divine.
And you cherish the potential of my sacrifice, and you use
your cassock to shield me from rain, and at the end of the
day, I am your martyr, sweet Michael. It scares me so, my
love.