I am cloaked in the red of the Scarlet Woman,
cymbals like Naamah in my hand, your apostle
of apostles, and the seven demons crawl under
my skin. Oh mercy of Maria, you pray, as I
move my hips like rain on glass, sinuously
curving in your starlight arms, you are my
rose garden, O Savior, most holy of holies,
and at night we both cry out in despair, you
for desolation and the nonbelievers, me for
the madness you must exorcise from my heart.
Perhaps we may find love in one another,
clutching like lovers the pearl of great
price between our wounded brows, but under
the light of evening, we laugh and hosanna
in the Mount of Olives, the firelight an
elegy in your dusty eyes, worn yet homely,
like an alabaster jar left too long in temple.
The caravan the disciples and women travel
in is carried by a stubborn ass, he kicks
up dust as you blow your shofar to declare
your Messianic arrival at yet another lost
town, but you are not a destroying angel, and
you would have clutched Sodomites to your
bleeding breast and fed them your ichor like
you transfigured your flesh to wine on my
tongue, o sweet Christ, be my wings of
albatross, and I will be your mate for life.
I am the woman of seven devils, just a whore.
But in me, you see so much