Door

Everyone looks for a door.

A door like Jesus,

who is an opening

in the shape of man.

A lacuna between the worlds,

like Mary, who is a wound

in the shape of woman.

Everyone looks for a portal

leading to an empty chamber

filled with secret palaces.

We meet here while our bodies 

are dreaming. We forget

how much we need a gateway
shaped like someone we can trust.
Come, take the master's hand.

Step through the hollow center 

of the shadow where 

your last breath has already gone.

Meet Mira here, the poetess.

Meet Rumi and the Magdalene,

Mohammad and the Baal Shem Tov.

Encounter the ancient Deer Priest,

the Shaman who rattled your bones,
changing your skeleton to a snake den.

What century you came from

doesn't matter.

What religion your fathers gave you

is the warm old Winter coat

you put away in Spring.

Come, meet Ishtar weeping

as she looses and lets fall

her seven garments of silence

and self-abandonment, 

descending toward the fiery

darkness of love.

There is no end

to the sacrament of loss

that defines us 

by what we are not.

Leave a scattering of veils.

Follow her nakedness

into your heart.

Painting: Mary Magdalene, by Savoldo