I wrote the first few stanzas years ago in San Diego as a response to being a working single mother—or what I called a “double parent” (more on that later)—with an infant child. The last stanza was written after a particularly difficult Easter Sunday, when I generally have a hard time due to not feeling at all saved, certainly not chosen, or even very well tolerated, much less unconditionally loved. I had a glimmer of an Epiphany at the time about what forgiveness might feel like, accompanied by the grace that makes possible a “peace that passeth all understanding.”
Christsophia
I
In the Beginning was the Man
and the Man was with Woman
and the Man said
“It is good!”
and the man grimaced in pleasure
swimming in the warmth
of skin and hair
and said
“It is finished!”
II
In the Garden was the Woman
bent with pain
bleeding forth a child
who grimaced in displeasure
at the sudden exile
from warmth and darkness
and clung to the Woman
the Way, the Truth and the Light.
III
In the Desert was the Man desperate with thirst
thrusting toward the warm red sea
parting the tender waves
unaware of what, in that moment
escaped:
a tiny swimming soul
pulsating with generations of men.
Upon awakening, “Forgive me!”
he cries, finding a small stranger
in his place.
IV
In the Market was the Woman
bent with worry
counting out the coins.
Reaching to feed, caress, anoint
the insatiable child,
covering the child with her hair and tears.
Performing the daily magic
she turned sorrow to a child’s joy,
tepid water into warm wine.
V
In the Temple was the Man
“I Am!” he said
but the Woman did not understand.
“I Am that I Am!” he said
“Oh,” said the Woman
and she felt her body spasm
anger and heat welling up within
as she spat “Get out!”
She threw down the flimsy statuettes
igniting toxic fumes.
VI
On the Hill was the Woman
bent with the weight of the pole
dragging a thousand thoughtless actions
upwards to the hole.
“What Man does is Mine to carry,”
she cursed under the strain,
shoving the heavy wood into its socket
empty of hope and desire.
VII
At the Tomb was the Man
leaning against the monstrous Stone
cradling the weeping child
as the wind blew scattered petals
onto the morning dew.
“She’s gone,” he said,
bending to wipe the tear-stained face.
He held the small broken heart
against his own mad beat,
and carried their child home.
I - VI, 1996
VII, 2001
16 SEPTEMBER 2018