Hail the Virgin! Queen hallowed and true.
Stella Maris of the sea, her eyes foaming blue.
Mary’s crown is white sable, her sword is bright.
She tramples the serpent with Heaven’s might.
In her hands a mirror, at her feet a gate.
She guards God’s reflection and Yeshua’s fate.
Come seals broken, Woman Clothed in the Sun.
She triumphs over Dragon, and eternity is won.
The Virgin anointed doles out heavenly blues,
Christ passes out alms to the faithful and true.
His fingers a carpenter’s splinter, bread for dinner,
wine to wash down the sanctified, cleanse sinners.
Rushing tide at the juncture of placental waters,
rocking to sleep in the womb of the night, moon’s
sweet cradle and her son’s starlight tongue, lips
like salt water and pure springs, tangy sweet, at
my mouth, spearing my sex, bringing new ways to
curse God while also screaming His name in ecstasy.
The waves come crashing, pinnacling with foam, and
mermaids become but lost souls on the shores, so
open your depths to me, sweet Stella Maris, and I
will dive for pearls in your bosom, Madre Maria.
Pendulum swings like a guillotine, scourged back and blood mouth
he hangs like perdition swiftly turning up roses to redemption, and
Pilate declares the Nazarene King of the Jews, and the bristle thorns
at his brow are pinpoints of stars in Vega, a swan, a dove, a dream.
Can’t you see how he hangs suspended, nails not enough to hold back
his ocean, and he walks on water, across the gap, into Hell, and he
thirsts for but only vinegar, sour wine at mouth as Joseph and the
Marys weep, Nicodemus caresses the Savior’s red toes and wishes
he were on the crucified slaughterboard instead of this sweet lamb.
Lamb turns to lion, the Sword of Damocles swiftly plunges into his
side, out comes milk and honey, out come manna and grapes, when
the Virgin clutched him to her breast, he was halfsick of the world,
just a bright eyed babe, and Christ wouldn’t latch, Christ didn’t want
milk but wonder, but she cradled him nonetheless, and her mercy
flowed and whetted his lips, that is what Mother Mary thinks: could
I but give him a bit of my marrow to stave off this pain! La Pieta
and the Magdalene lower him from the Cross, she will hold him to
her heart one last time, as Magdalene ever weeps at his feet, Joseph
and Nicodemus wipe away the gore, and it is silent in Golgotha, and
soon, he will arise from the Tomb to doubting disciples, but the
myrrhbearers believe, and Joseph believes, and Nicodemus believes,
witness, oh witness, while the twelve have fled and dead and betrayed.
Peter and Thomas and John and James, Judas swaying in a summer breeze.
Til the field of guts, til the olive grove, turn over a new leaf, in three days
time, sweet wine, sweet bread, sweet life eternal, then the Acts, then white
Ascension. These things are matters of the heart, and hearts are blind, only
feel. The pendulum swings, the dragon falls, the Lion of Judah roars: “I AM
KING.” And at the End of Days, seals unleashed, red bridle, swords at mouth.
Judgment comes to those who least expect it, but Binah flows, so best trim
your wicks, virgins, and ready the chamber for the Bridegroom. He awaits!
Sometimes in my nightmares, I remember Gabriel lambent
and resplendent, with calla lilies at hand and white fire
at his brow, wrapping me up in wings of infinity and kissing
my mouth with a trickster’s manna. God descended upon my
virgin womb and thus, my greatest pride and greatest sorrow
was conceived, once a babe I suckled, then a man’s corpse I
brought down from that cursed cross and rocked to death’s shore.
I am not sacred, I am not holy, I am simply a servant, oh humanity.
A vessel for the Son of God, pious and plain, I am not the kind
to tempt the Grigori, I am simple in my washing and sewing, and
when I labored in that manger, brown dirt at my brow, sweet Joseph
clutching my back as Salome midwifed sweet Yeshua into this fallen
world, I did not think of the travails to come. I did not think of
the bitterness of losing my very soul, of following blind in my
progeny’s direction after he ascended to who knew where, only that
I followed in time, up to the aether, and I would hold every child
to my breast, to drink of my milk, and soothe their wounds, all for
love.
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.
There is nothing in you that is not blue violet thunder,
a love like rains clefting open the Earth, your dominion
is the lightning strike and petrichor summers, sweet holy
decadence of storms fructifying and revitalizing our bodies.
We eat your blood because your blood is rain. We devour your
flesh breathing because your body is thick, misty air and not
to inhale is to choke on hurricanes. There is no question of
whether or not to breathe you in, and with a love like yours,
why, I stand cradling ball lightning, dancing with St. Elmo’s
fire, and your Holy Ghost dances like a blazing purple white
star, there is nothing beyond necessity in my devotion towards
your blood, your bones, your manna and succor of your veins.
And I am dancing in the tornado, flying through thunderheads.
I meet you where stars kiss the ocean on a stormy night, oh
Lord, lay me down on your crackling bed, make love to me like
the skies weep onto my mother mud, appear to me manifesting
pure being, the heady death of all my fears, a ship set sail
on gales, and I will die, but it will be beautiful, and I will
ascend to vast summits of ice crystal castles, in union with
you, oh my God, oh my Lamb, oh my thunder strike and lightning
whip, the heavens are but a metaphor for airy wanderlust, and
love makes the storm grow bold and prance for the meadows,
the valleys of my heart open up for your rain and holy pain,
oh Christ, do not forget me in your Passion, for I weep rivers
of gold at your feet, and my madness in the desert, hair grown
long to cover my nakedness, is but the raging sylphs themselves.
I will bottle your blood and wine then pour them over the oceans.
I will stand on cliff’s peak and proclaim your love of All.
Long-suffering Jesus, killing himself to make whole the world,
I would but a taste of your Sacrament, like rain, like grain.
I spread my legs wide to receive the Cross, I hug my breasts
and let rivers of milk flow to my cleft, a Sacred Whore who
nourishes the moon at her side, twin sun and lunar bodies,
which are just like your eyes, and Mother Nature is calling,
your Virgin birth, so fly away from my dust and ribs and clay.
I am only made wholly through your rains.
O Angel of the Lord, you are a burning bush of temptation,
to think I, humblest of all virgins, just engaged to sweet
Joseph, would bear in my untouched womb a Son! You are so
comely, sweet Gabriel, smelling of myrrh and frankincense,
and your body is alight with glory, strung with stars your
skin, curls of brown hair, eyes like linden trees, sweet
cinnamon your breath and saffron freckles your blessing
and kiss of life. You say I shall be remembered forever,
that I will wander in Eve’s curse of labor to deliver up
the Prince of this World, in a manger, my midwife my sister
Salome, and only Joseph shall dream your pronouncement, and
I will be seen as wanton, o archangel, why is this my cross
to bear? What penitence or holiness has my simple flesh done
to play host to the all-consuming love of God? The Spirit moves
me, see how the lust of God dances in your eyes, and you carry
the seed of Yahweh, sweet Gabriel, a pure desire of Flood waters,
the spirit of the Lord comes over me as you take me up to a field
in the Heavens and we turn hay, we are hands roving and mouths full
of manna and sunshine, the sweetness and lovingkindness of your
lips singing hosanna into my tongue, I taste your skin and it is
snow, which I have never seen in Nazareth. The Northern traders
have told me of snow, pure as your lilies, and cool and welcoming.
Let your storm of ice and winter embrace my vulva, sweet Gabriel.
Conceive in me our Son. He shall bear your likeness. He shall hunt
gazelle and work wood and be a mad mystic of outcasts and fallen.
He will lift us all up to the Heavens like you, my Son will be the
trampler of the serpent, just as you trampled the doubts I was fit
to be the temple of our dear fearless Lord, O Gabriel, you stir in
my loins feelings of need so great they are a burbling river, and
oh Gabriel, you have made me a woman, and you have made me the most
preeminent amongst saints, a prophetess and visionary, and when we
join, I remember the love our Lord had for Moses and Elijah, and
I think, you have appeared to many before, but none have you taken
into your arms. I love the Lord, I love you, my Strength of God.
Touch me and make me worthy, kiss and caress away my sins, anoint
me with your dew, I will be singing your praises until my death, O
sweet one, brave one, trickster, lover, messenger, angel, my wings!
Thus was my Son conceived, in Heiros Gamos, and I shall bury my Son.
No mother will mourn as much as I, and no lady will be as holy.
My path from now on as the Holy Ghost claims me, be born in me,
O Lord, is one between salvation and the fires of giving in.
I will succor you, sweet Child of mine. I will be your foundation.
And many mothers in travails will come after me, and many have died
before in labors most gruesome, but you are easy on my womb, and to
bear the stars in your belly, the cosmos in your eyes, is miraculous
indeed.
Yod He Vau He, sweet Israel’s husband. Come into this world and meet
your bride, be my sweetest victory and humble Babe, Sweet Redeemer.
All twelve years of my life have led to this moment of conception.
Gabriel, bless our Son. Lord, bless our Child. Life, bend to your Bridegroom.
He rides a white horse, he rides a donkey, he carries asps and waters sweet.
Tame my doubts and please, by Asherah and El, make me a fit mother for a King!
The Virgin is cloaked in azure blue and the white of clouds,
her Son’s Whore in the red of the Scarlet Woman, gold cloak.
They sew the disciples’ robes by the fireside late at evening,
where the Jewish star man Kesil rotates in the heavenly spheres.
The Magdalene asks Mother Mary, why did your Son redeem me? For
I was lost and cast aside, why was he born in a manger, to the
flicker of lamb’s ears and music of mantises? Why did God come
in the flesh of such a soft man, my Rabboni and companion, who
preaches parables on mounts and at temples, curses fig trees
that refuse to bear fruit? His ways are strange, Mother Mary.
The Virgin smiles and helps fix a seam on the Magdalene’s piece.
The girl of Magdal Eder has never been much of one for sewing.
Because, my daughter, the meekest among us are made mighty
through my precocious Son, and what is in Him, His love for
you, is but of God, and what I bore in my untouched womb was
a promise – for the dead to dance after Resurrection and the
quietly waiting saints in Gehenna to ascend to Abraham’s bosom.
Have faith, my child, that he loves you so, and you are
ever worthy.
We Dance the Danse Macabre 