jeremy n0thing's first epistle to mary magdalene

magdalene, money pit
how does your inheritance grow?
when an empty rifle smokes in the window,
when the cameras won't do justice to a widow of a giant,
cast your stones into the world.

the rags you wear hang from your shoulders
like moss dripping down from a jagged ledge
your sunken eyes crawl up and you
breathe in the dust of their retreating steps,
it's you who casts the first stone
dragging the rasp across your throat,
throw your hands down and take to the street.

magdalene, there's a bomb in your arms
let it go tonight in the face of all who scorn you
give them your hair like a rocket to the womb,
the birthplace of dynamite was drowned in chewing gum.

magdalene, mother of assassins
fill your mouth with sticks and gravel
fashion a complaint against the mawkish machinery
that sells your face for lipstick and cigarettes
tear your heart from their prowling hands,
drive nails through the sand until it comes up wood.

cloth is stripped and hung from branches
limp in the wind like flesh in the grave
yet all the while you're crying through
with arms outstretched, poised on your triggers
magdalene, you know who it is you must murder,
rise from the floor with your fists ready.