For you...

I wrote this with the idea that sometimes we write things for people or about people, but we never get a chance to show it to them. They don't know how we feel in the words we have time to think about, or what we think or thought of them and all that. It happens to the best of us, as I wanted to demonstrate.


Mary Magdalene

Tell me the story
of a woman's eager lips pressed
against the wet and dirty neck
of her savior
most holy

come down

in all his glory

say it so that the white soft light
tucked under her pubic bone
still glows
even without his touch
in absence of his grainy
skinned carpenter's hands,
rough from worry
and nails
and begging for death,
missing the organ from between which
their intermingled souls
will not ever squeeze

and recall the gospels, like the best poems
are written to a time
a place
a woman
and lament that even the clarity of omniscience
couldn't keep our lord's loving letters
to a whore
from reaching her far too late.