A Poem for Good Friday

The Three Marys (at the Foot of the Cross)

I. Mary Magdalene
Once before, when I was tormented by demons
Who whispered of all the things I would never be,
I walked around this very garden, laughing.
Not much was clear back then—sometimes
A face, a scrap of garbage fit to eat,
a doorway. We were
legion, and as numerous as pebbles.
How did you gather us all together
to draw out the one? She became me,
And I became yours.
You held my hand when we walked near to dogs
who sensed where the others
used to be.
I sense them here, under this sun,
in the faces of the soldiers and the crowd.
I want so desperately to hold your hand
but I cannot reach it.

II. Mary of Clopas
When you were little, the smallest things
kept you occupied for hours. My own children
wound around my legs and over the tables and under
my very skirts, but you hunched over your little wooden toys
and hummed mizmorim.
The Passover your mother’s donkey was lame
and you stayed a few extra days
was the quietest the children have ever been.
It was as if they drew some stillness from you,
as if your stories inspired their own,
as if the bird we found you holding
with its wings too bent to fly
was the same that we saw soaring not two days later.
It’s funny—I’d forgotten all about that bird
with all that you became.
But now, I think
that bird is me,
though I wish it could be you.

III. Mary, Jesus’ Mother
Are you cold?
Does it hurt much?
I see the rawness on your face, the
cut in your side, and I
recite the herbs for healing
to keep from running.
O Son, the length and breadth of
my every day, even as you
wandered far from me,
tell me this: does your Father know the
songs that soothed your nightmares?
Was it He who reached down to
catch you as you were pushed into the straw?
I used to think I knew something of pain
because I labored and bore you.
Now I understand
that
I
knew
nothing.

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I never realized that John's Passion narrative puts three Marys at the crucifixion of Jesus until it was read at the Good Friday service today. For more context, see this link on Mary Magdalene and
this link on Mary of Clopas.

Edit: I had to come add this-- I'm no poet, but any time I have written a poem (or anything else, for that matter) I think about Virginia Woolf calling for women to have a room of their own, and while I wholeheartedly stand behind that sentiment, it's not a room I need. It's time, and child care. And that's what I got yesterday-- a peaceful hour to sit in church and ponder the death of our Lord (brought to me by child care at church), followed by two kids tired out from said child care who took a nice long nap (the time I needed). And I wrote a poem, and I today I'm a marvelously better woman for the combination of those things. More precisely, today I am a better mother.