to someone far beyond your mind
did you ever dream that miracles would become your skin,
that your belly would hold hope?
When you poured the spikenard and mixed it with your tears,
letting down your hair to caress him,
did you know a day would come, when resurrected,
he would tell you not to touch him any longer?
Sweet broken heart, with faith so strong
that white transformed to red in your hands
as proof for the faithless…
the same hands that caressed him,
held him to your wifely breast,
and on some distant shore,
held a Black Madonna up to heaven
for her father to see in a place beyond death.
Your legend has been tainted by the fears of so many
called both insane and whore
by those who cannot comprehend how pure and deep a love must be
to abandon self in holy sacrifice,
forever Mary of the Towers,
woman with the alabaster jar,
beloved of The Man.
(c) RCGA, 2013