I need to believe Magdalene today 
when she comes to my yard, waving 
both arms, me not fully awake and 
longing for ritual other than coffee. 

I want to see her original story 
standing — there — beneath the red-
buds, posed as if she’s been in this 
house so many times she knows 

the sound of the door squelching 
open. Friends, I need to know she’s 
         beautiful
and angry. I want her body to be 
hourglass, despite never growing 

life within it, to carry a quickening 
anyway, outside of herself, so 
dangerous and sacred she had to be 

edited. And I need to hear her 
bloodline, his name and my name 
laughed from her mouth as 
she gives one more windmill 
of a wave, waiting to see if 
I’ll come outside and answer.