" Mary Mandolin "
On the streets of Jerusalem, I sell
sweet smelling oils. An addict
showed me how to dissolve his rocks
of pleasure, now I make masseuse's fire
from frankincense and myrrh.
I'm too old for men to lust my body.
I was the bone of boy's hip, now I scatter them
into the air like thieves. You will say I lie
but I am only half-crazy, fevered
with the passion of a man I call Christ
for simplicity. They call me "Mandolin"
because I sit in the marketplace, spread
my skirts and strum old tunes taught me
by the undead. Once a raven drawn to the coins
dropped at my feet by beggars and whores,
flew at my head and I smashed its brains.
I cooked it over a fire, picked its bones clean
of any parasites, sucked its marrow, dreamed
of the dark sherry of my true love's eyes.
He carried me, a blue and gold feather,
in his rucksack to show his mother.
"All women are whores, Mary" the statues
tell me when I pass them to go to confession.
Christ will become an eagle or a kite, scavenge
the perfumed night, suckle my breasts with his
man's lips, claw at the ribbons in my hair
with his talons. He will leave me to drop
pieces of flesh and gold into the muddy
waters of Jordan. I have written him,
a parable, in my own hand. I have turned
souvenir snapshots in their wire baskets,
gouged out the eyes of a savior, whose eyes
no matter what direction I walk
never stop to favor me.
© 2004 Laurie Byro
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