Imagine me thirteen, about to be
confirmed, and still not sure
what
to do with those breasts,
that god. Christ was so very
beautiful on the
cross --
his muscled legs and arms,
his body pulled taut.
I wanted
something --
to burn for him...
to die with him, muscles
straining
bodies taut, arms and legs entwined.
All the girls had breasts
now,
but mine were still the biggest,
and I wanted to offer them up
on
his altar.
Imagine me eighteen -- I had
left the church, long ago; I had
learned
what to do with those
breasts. My hair was growing long,
and I was
learning how to dance
on newly-muscled legs. At night,
I whispered to
God.
Oh Christ!
If you were only like the gods
of my Hindu friends. If you,
like slim blue Krishna,
came down from heaven
to seduce women in
fields,
I would unbutton my blouse for you;
I would unbraid my hair.
I know what Mary Magdalen desired.
To smooth the sadness from your eyes,
with the softness of her skin,
the fullness of her breasts.
To wash
you from head to toe
and dry you with skin and hair --
and then get wet
again.
To take the lord of creation
deep inside herself --
and hear
him, finally,
laughing as he came.
Ah, Christ -- if you had only
danced with me!