Magdalen
whose eyes turn down
Tears will never wash away the
soil
Even though your hands grow
raw from rubbing against
themselves,
for only that place which is
lower than all
can bring all waters to rest
as one
Magdalen
Magdalen
whose shoulders fold over
Tears will never wash away the
stain
Even though your voice cries
out like thunder behind the
darkened mountains,
for only that which is
hollow
can know the fullness of
resonance
Starving
and fattened
a body lies disowned
one time stolen
now given away
sacred contract broken and
freshly once again
broken
perhaps that one more
transgression will call
forth
rains of stone to break it to
the core
yet it remains with neither
yes nor no
Bent
to the ground, fine ointment
on your fingers
you drag a crown's glory in
dust trampled in from the
street
late forgetting the pride
given you to survive
so that just once
you might reach out your own
hands
and somehow make something
clean again
Magdalen
in whose face we see the whole
of life
Magdalen
whose spirit lifts us all in
artless bowing
Maddalena
Tears can never wash the
ash
from that which love already
has rendered
forever clean