MAGDALA

Me_cafe_rougeby Jake Murray22 Oct 2014

MAGDALA

When she held him in her
arms, against her breasts,
their naked limbs
damp in the firelight,
did she cry, as he slept, his
smooth body alive in her
eyes like
a vision?

Did she
know that she would see
his arms torn, his legs twisted,
his crimson face stained
with blood that flowed from
his brow, swollen and red
with a thousand wounds?

Did she kiss him, her mouth
pressed against his matted hair
wet with their passion, knowing
that the fullness of this body
was hers tonight, never to be
felt like this,
like this,
again?

Did she wait as the minutes
slid by in the night, not wanting
the dawn, this precious moment
to be secret forever, this
experience of a hopeless love,
shining like a jewel,
pressed on the flesh, made
sacred by the heart, consecrated
by their lips that sang as they
moved in concert together?

Did she hold him, clutched
to her breast like a mother her
child, so she would
remember,
staring out into the emptiness,
as if his receding form,
barefoot,
were echoing off into the dark,
never to be like this,
like this,
again?