Mary Magdelena's Thoughts on the Morning of the Last Supper

You have left me lying here

for what we know is the inevitable.

After we made love last night and

you drifted asleep on my breast,

You were restless in your dreams:

You moaned a heart-rending moan.

You pleaded--"No, no, don't let this happen," and then,

When I kissed your brow and

cooed my love warm and whispery next to your ear,

You finally settled into a resolute sleep.

I wish I could dream a resolute dream, one of a simple life,

a common life of a 

carpenter's wife:

You and I and children, then grandchildren

and your sleeping in my arms every night, tired 

from your physical work, not your father's!

But that life was not offered to you, nor to me!

You knew that long before I: you knew all that when

our eyes meet, our lips touched, our bodies melted into one another

that first time.

I only knew later, when like Leda,

I took on your knowledge with your seed.

But unlike Leda, I took on more: more than your knowledge, 

I took on the onus of you and of our love:

I took on the memory of my holding your 

head between my moist breasts after we made love

and you were awaiting your sleep and your fate.

I took on the the feeling of your presence in my arms, 

between my thighs, between my breasts--

even now when you are gone.

I took on a life that is empti-full:

denied your physical presence, 

yet full in our love for one another.

Right now, tho', your love lasts fresh on me and in me:

your scent hangs on my skin; 

your beard's irritation is still red on my face;

your delight lies deep and fertile within me. . .

now, right now. . . . .

even that you are gone.