Aubade

The woman in the alabaster jar
woke up lily white and comely
though cramped all night
in Savior X’s arms.

He felt free to touch
her—ankle, brow, and breast—
bless her with long fingers;
baptize her, cross her heaving

concavity. Such a little sin—
Weeping peccatrix!
Maudlin penitent!—
to bless him in return,

to sneak into that wooden cabinet,
where once she herself had
housed in the Dry and Cracked
Heel and Lip Department.

In her milky satin spar
she spoke with Steve the Sexton
who kept the keys to Section B
(aforesaid Cracked)

where was kept that precious oil.
Raggle-taggle, soft
as gypsum, she rubbed
the spiced emulsion in,

kneaded, braided, rolled,
blessed and loved what was wasting away,
ignored what quivered and shone.
She might then have glided to the back

of the jar, up and out
to what was free (no penitence,
no eternal Whore!)—to seek a place
in poetry or cutlery.

The alabaster jar is dark, like night;
He will not wake, so there she’ll stay,
There she’ll weep and bless and love,
Until he’s crucified and she’s free.