She

  

Playfulness without a player.

The frolic of God.

An abandoned lute fingered by the midnight wind.

Countlessness of pollen grains in a single flower.

The fragrance of myrrh wafted over the ocean

where moons dance in dolphin crescent stillness.

A fallen tower spilling jasmine 

and oil of spikenard on the sand

as rudderless boats of plenty drift unhelmed

wherever anointing is needed.

Her body laden with jars of chrism and wine,

how could she whirl up your backbone

from blossom to blossom,

escaping your gravity?

A woman of the night

or the temple virgin of Ningal?

Yes.

And the grail holder of Jesus.

Scholars will never understand

how her polished emptiness overflows.

How her darkness engenders stars.

They would rather correct mistakes

in God's translation of her marvelous silence.

If you want to taste her fecund blackness,

cleanse the secret window of your heart.

Behind clouds of grief and time

the space of her gaze is ever amethyst.

Clarity itself is her veil,

a wound inside a wound.

Your work is to keep it open.

To flow and remain unhealed.

To let in the golden breath

you can never comprehend.

Image: from Mary Magdalene, Ambrosius Benson, 1520