Betwixt Eve and Virgin Mary
In the swirl behind the creek, she shalt be offered the curse of Endymion
And all whose ravenous hands wander carry the claret sword
Verboten from the declarations of heaven
A wooden stake pierces her putrescent bosom
And thunder strikes her city of gloom.
The scattered banshees upon her delicate guise deserted with valediction, and it was he who proclaimed exorcism. And the luminescence before her eyes veiled her coats as they ceded to an unfaithful Babylonian garden, and she proceeded with the cloak of the night.
A village on the shore of Galilee espoused her back when her coiffed hair could not strike the girth of her bones, and the disintegration of her bygone identity met the arctic clouds of the tower. To what accursed beauty does the compass lead when her epithet is not hers to claim but ours to stain?
And both brides contaminated the rivers for the holy women were in charge of an anarchist nature. The first- the descendant of the second, of the third, of you and me. A witness of the maiden censure, the dagger driven by contrition and embraced by the empyreal.
The predecessor of that womb, whose walls had widened by an early genesis. And now, already swollen, continued to tailor a new earth within to buttress a chantry within a monolith. For she had been carried by a sinful womb, but her mother’s anointed water could not pass the reach of her daughter’s mantilla.
God made no direct alignment with Eve for she was the glaive of separation between the heavenly realm and the red earth. It is of crystalline clarity that Adam had always been a scion of paradise for he was named after his newest exile and the purest soil his feet had landed on. Eve slit his door to the kingdom until the wood revamped as a crucifix.
As provenance consumed the woman of yore as if she were the only succulent flesh around, the auxiliary renaissance floods not the vestal blood. She is the knight whose mare had been seized again after her body had dueled on the vanguard.
For both women confront pejorative apex and abysmal extremities, Mary Magdalene was the axis mundi of an Oleander tree.
Time was when their eyes of waning portraits tinted her a concubine escorted by septenary rings, then dusk spared its light to bequeath her an heirloom of Christ’s resurgence. And although the sky pleaded her testimonial lune, the moon’s dissonant orbs fade away in the act of an eclipsing sun.
And the solar day swept the dust’s carcass, and her revelation turned into confession. Yet, it was she who stood beside the cross and cradled his head as his crown riddled him. It was she who took his mark to be incised through the last layer of her palisade.
And Peter grew frail, spiteful, that his liege would exclaim a woman’s claim. The cleric professed that Christ’s ink deluged her insides, and the cave could have clattered by her intense carnal gaze. But she was the first eye of resurrection, the hill of Jerusalem that watched him bleed. Without her witness, could this religion ever be?
Memory is faint when woman be; her flesh is foreign and so is she. How is it that no woman is ever original in the testament of credence, even the first? For her primitive will forever be reddened by the sanguinary hands of God and men, whose truth of women is but a contorted gospel meant to mantle splendor. If the first and the last woman are foredoomed with the same sealing, then the first was never the birth, she was but a foreordained offering.
