A wound like clockwork
ticks through her flesh.
You don’t explain pain
to pain.
It is a clock with no wings
welded to the eternities of the ever smaller,
larger now.
She would break her body
She would break your body
She would crack the world like an egg
to be free,
dip out the dying light like yolk
to make the black body visible.
Had she the coin
of dead men’s eyes
she would gig a timeshare angel
to roll the stone
from the tomb
and ship that rock
back to Sisyphus
to whom it originally belonged.
She the Magdalene
who tells Jesus
not to touch her.
No diminishing of her diminishing,
demiurge, dominion…
sucked into history
daggered into commentaries
her footnotes locked in iron boots
seven leagues wide
all the better to kick down
the doors of imperception.
The spear in her side
throbs like a tuning fork
tapped on the glitter
of the ritual obsidian teardrop.
The weight not dead
but squirming,
from one heaven to another
hosannaed.
Dr. Omed's Tent Show Revival 