Veiled

Veiled in silence,
O thinnest only bridal gown,
you suffuse my body
with your body.
Black as granulated diamonds
dancing inside me,
moving like a serpent
who has just shed her skin,
are you this very breath?
Are you Kali, or a bitter sea,
or a tower rising
from my sacrum to my crown,
a silo of myrrh, struck
by lightning, spilling sweetness
where there was famine?
Whoever said your form
was terrible
has not really seen you,
or fallen victim to your
wing-swords honed
by yearning.
Catastrophe of grace,
you burn and tear
the wedding garment.
Your name means,
“Ruthless Thunder
in the Hollow of My Spine.”
Your name means,
“She Who Takes No Captives.”
But who among the living
knows your true name?
I pray in the language
of the golden egg
where nothing has yet been born.
Let my flesh grow still as Shiva
that the night inside me
might comprehend your radiance.
Let my blood ferment into the wine
of Christ’s desire,
that I might murmur,
“Miryam, Miryam.”

Published in 'Winged Moon' magazine on July 22, for the feast
of St. Mary Magdalene. Icon of Mary Magdalene by Lentz,
Grace Cathedral, San Francisco.