Magdalene: A Poem

I had imagined your tomb

shrouded in weeds unkempt.

Walled in stone,

womb-dark,

it would wrap you

in death.

But here it is—

stone thrust aside,

a path in dust.

A voice calls me

by name;

my dark mantle

makes me think you

the lazy gardener

with lilies and hyacinths

to tend.

“Mary.”

You say it again—

wash me in that voice

that swept me from my lone road,

bent me to your feet,

raised my head to

let me drink of you.

I reach for you, but

you say I cannot touch you,

cannot feel your

cool skin amid

desert-heat, your hands that

anointed me

to walk holy halls and

tread palm fronds bare-foot.

Scars bloom on your

tender wrists

among blue lightning-veins:

Go, you say,

for I must quench the world

with you,

let your rain

fall on outstretched hands.

Drenched with calling,

I lift my veil

and leave you.

I taste sea-salt;

my voice rings

clear as wedding bells

and swells in me--

a tide yearning

to meet shore.

Alleluia.

Amen.