This
is how She works.
Beneath the polished veneer
of
patriarchy-orthodoxy-hierarchy,
She weaves her tribe of dark roots braided
into the roots of others.
You know you are a member of her species
when
you pass through a portal of aloneness
to the All, entangled in All.
You
will never gather her complete collected works,
only shreds of lost broken scrolls,
half-glimpsed
intuitions, after-images
of flame extinguished in the dark,
secret longings of a tongue for the Spirit
and the Spirit for a tongue,
the
pang and purity of every desire.
This is how She works.
She yearns to exercise the hidden region
of your soul, which
is your body.
The
labyrinth of your neurons
is a golden scripture of
illegible fire,
her Newest Testament.
You are not like any other book.
You
fall directly from the mouth of God,
like spittle in the clay.
The
phases of her moon do not repeat themselves.
She invites you to drown in the apocalypse
of the ancient now.
She keeps no ledger,
profits on one page, debts on another.
She
beckons you into the desert
and makes your spine a pillar of silence.
This is how She works.
Her revelation is a network of mushrooms
spreading ointment while others sleep.
A wolf pack hungry for raw metaphors.
A
congregation of owls
who celebrate their hunt in soundlessness.
The belly-rending howl of mother coyote
centering the night.
Her nakedness is feral, lethal, lovely, reveling
in slivers, shards stained with
the blood
of her light, the wine of her solitude.
This is how we weave her again,
through the work of remembering,
recalling
ourselves
through the fragments we are.
LISTEN to a reading of this poem.
Art by Tatiana Nikolova-Houston, a Bulgarian devotee of Mary Magdalene whose paintings we celebrated at the recent conference
on 'Mary Magdalene and the Tree of Life' by Mythica Foundation.
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