I wish I’d written this poem before my poetry collection, Siren Song (http://www.amazon.com/Siren-Song-Tawni-Waters/dp/0692208798), was published. It feels like the perfect end note to the Mary Magdalene poems in that book. But since I couldn’t include it there, I’ll put it here.
It came to me yesterday as I drove from Los Angeles to Albuquerque, from one of my heart’s homes to another. I voice dictated it while watching my beloved desert landscape glide by outside my windows. I know poems aren’t as popular as prose, so I don’t expect a bunch of hits for this one, but my Magdalene poems are precious to me. They feel like they come to me from a higher place, and when I write them, strange coincidences surrounding the history of Mary Magdalene always appear in my world. (The glorious painting, The Lamentations of Mary Magdalene on the Body of Christ, was completed by Arnold Böcklin in 1868.)
today I heard your tombstone crack.
The sound of your resurrection
shook the pillars of the sky.
Stars shook loose like gemstones
from the velvet cloak of night.
Death trembled and died.
You have been uncrucified.
And now my king,
I have gone to prepare a place for you. Come to me there,
of winding stairs, cobbled streets, and holy waterfalls.
Over the wind tossed river
a stone bridge arcs like a hissing cat.
A fat woman plays her violin.
Sins rise from skin to evaporate
like mist into the cool womb of Mary’s night.
I will stand watch there, my starving stare
half dead for want of your face.
Whispering your name
Isa, my own Isa,
bone of my bones
flesh of my flesh
the shame of our deaths forgotten,
until your light shatters
blotted black ink horizon
spattering dark with dawn.