After an icon of Mary Magdelene at the feet of Jesus, Cathedral Basilica of St Francis of Assisi, Santa Fe
Blood black and congealed with dying matter flows clean
red from crown to clavicle, crest of rib
and hands fresh-bruised like tender doves touched
with ache of dusk
flown down on wings white-lit
to meet you, and where a mother in blue
looks in sorrow, and the other covers her eyes
in grief, you, the third in red, curl at his feet, a shell at break
of parted sea red as the hair that shrouds you;
broken bride in the waiting
do you know you will wake again
to rend a dawn like a veil torn, to meet him standing there,
to be filled white and clean and, once again, to shatter?