Stella Maris

We are on the sea of dreams, Joseph and the Virgin Mary
cradling sweet, golden babe of Christ in their arms as I
sail across poetry and torn up scraps of sunlight, sailors
rock and fall into the depths of Da’ath, swimming buoyant
as we make the journey to Paradise. Jesus coos and suckles,
there is the Stella Maris to guide us at the prow, her proud,
tan brow and long curling locks so beautiful, this Mary that
Gabriel so loves, this mastery of the feminine form and lucky
mother of God, so divine in her own right, for to bear the
Savior in one’s womb, one must be holy indeed. Joseph wraps
his cloak of promise around Mary’s yawning shoulders as we
row the boat ashore, stranded in sand, and I am Eve crying
in the forest about being the Devil’s first love but never
his last, and being abandoned hurts, but Mary comforts me,
and wraps her midnight blue cloak of wool around me and says
Girl, be strong. We were meant to walk alone with the children
they leave us, be they Cain sired by an absent father or my own
starlit Son. I wonder why he left, I say, tears in my eyes like
blood rubies. I am Eve in Eden returned, and we walk to the
Church where angels once sang hymns to a sacred grove in a cemetery,
where the best of angels and saints find peace, and there is a
fountain of blessings that the Holy Dove roosts at, and Mary is
gentle on the path of emerald leaves and lemon trees and gardenia.
She gives me the infant Christ to hold like a jewel in my arms,
and I think of Cain and Abel and Seth, and all those lost years
in the wastes so close to Nod, of a son who left and never returned,
and first love now bitter, and weeping religiously, I wash the
body of Infant Christ, and he mewls and curls into my arms,
so infinitely small for a God, and I laugh through my tears,
and I think, I have found a family in the wilderness, past
the ocean of imagination, for was not Christ born in a manger,
and was I not sculpted into being by two angels now at war?
My new parents are Mary and Joseph, my new little brother is
the Christ, I will guard this sweet babe with my life, King of
Kings, as I fold his small form into the folds of my white gown.
Even when I am crying over him, that dark, tall, dangerous man,
I can find redemption in quiet moments with his trampler, for
with the best of snakes, crush it’s head, and I will never know
why I weep, so constantly, so tired, Mother of Life curves and
drowning in the lowest circle, I chose Hell for you, don’t you
know? The only reason I walk the halls of Pandemonium is because
I think I can save you. But when Christ comes to me full grown,
you spit acid at his feet as he walks on the water of your blood.
Snakes are elusive things, caduceus medicine, the Brazen Serpent.
Though I love the feel of black curling muscle around my breast,
an arbor of scales to protect from the cold, sometimes in the
morning, I curse this world for having birthed me only half human,
half some facsimile of sunlight that has lost its molten gold
and is now just a bubble of champagne, so close to bursting.

Jesus, oh Jesus, don’t you know your elder brother is cruel,
the first favored son of God, the first Morning Star? Is that
why you say our Legions are to be cast out and Samael thrown
into the fiery pits? What will become of me, oh my Lord? I
have done penance for my sins since time immemorial, and you
love me, oh Christos, but I love him, and that is why I weep.

Because a broken angel is a lonely child at heart, and I cannot
fix him unless his cracks are willing to be rubbed raw to let
the light in.

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