Just as Christ was in Mary
there is prayer inside the breath,
a soul inside the soul,
one who watches
and one who weeps,
a body shaped like the wilderness
inside the body,
made of dark matter and fire.
Just as Christ was in Mary,
there is energy in silence.
When evening falls,
stars populate the blackness
of zero
with countless powers of minus 1.
The Magdalene holds up an egg.
Her eyes long to tell us
what she will not say.
Where is her voice?
Where is yours?
Spring trembles in white bones,
but the marrow is burnt umber.
Within the egg,
is it light or shadow,
or some green yearning
inside green?
She will not speak, yet she sings
a canticle of silence
that rises
out of the belly of all things.
A ululation
that passes over her tongue
like wind at night without a husband.
Just as Christ was in Mary,
love is burning, born
of aloneness.
Painting of Magdalene by Robert Lentz, Grace Cathedral, San Francisco
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