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Anisha Jain
Magdalene
Only in a painting could a woman be this free.
Even with the eyes of a man drinking her and his handsshaping her,
she uses death as an armrest, and bares her smooth, palechest,
fearless of any stabs.
Lips bruised green, fingers bruised blue,
she has had enough.
Today she will uncrease her brow and push anguish,
the alleged child of god,
out of her swollen belly.
She gives in to angel-song
eyes empty as the sea,
thirstless and unquenched
hungerless and hungering
hearing unheard song in the shadow above.
She knows how they call her 'whore' because of the gentlefire of her hair
But they are merely jealous.
He hid the blood on his hands in the folds of her gown
It was perfect.