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.