I never believed
that Christ struck people down
like his old testament father
turning wives into salt.
But then i grow curious.
Wondering if he looks down
his lovely hawk nose
at a perspiring pastor in his pulpit.
Spewing the song and dance
of his wife being a whore.
His first bride reduced
to the worst thing man can make a woman.
Does fury rise in him?
Does he seek out leather and burrs,
to braid another whip?
To shame a false prophet besmirching
His precious Mary Magdalene.
Christ would overturn coffers of
offertory lining the pockets
of skinny men like Peter,
jealous of his bride’s place at his side.
The tales of her loving heart
her quick mind
her role as his messenger
the ecstasy he gifted her.
Omitted from canon,
only the subject of painting.
To be silent, to be observed,
to be desired, to be hated.
As the savior leaves his cloud
to perform his husbandly duty,
a tanned hand holds his wrist
and whispers in their ancient language.
“They aren’t worth leaving me cold in bed”
Allison Carter is an undergrad at the University of Central Missouri, an intern for Pleiades Magazine, and poetry editor for Arcade Magazine.