Whore and Madonna

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.