But Christ loved her more than all the disciples and used to kiss her often on the mouth. The rest of the disciples were offended by it and expressed disapproval. They said to him, “Why do you love her more than all of us?” The Saviour answered and said to them, “Why do I not love you like I love her?”
—Gospel of Philip
Let them call me harlot!
I refuse
to think of myself, or you, sweet pudding,
as a boil on God’s face. I refuse the Pharisee piety. Never once have I heard them offer a prayer
in praise of the leopard’s velvet belly,
the honeybee’s golden fur. And why not?
Earth is as opulent as their heaven, I’m sure of it.
Oh sisterheart, where shall we ever find our true home? What will become of us?
If I close my eyes,
I see us withered and frail, gray hairs on nipples and chins,
our faces empty as the plates of the poor.
I see us following the others, a clot of women wading into the ritual bath, splashing handfuls of water under our armpits, our runny breasts,
as if we should wash away the smell of our seas.
For our family’s sake, I have kept my mouth shut, but soon I shall burst. I shall storm them
at the temple door, confront them
with their own glittering greed.
And if they dare fling stones in my face,
I shall sing out the true nature of pollution:
Not this silken dove tucked between my legs. Not this tiger-heart, pacing in its ring of fire.
"Letter to Martha,” from M by Dale M. Kushner, reprinted by permission of 3: A Taos Press. Copyright 2022 by Dale M. Kushner.
