Magdalene

Mary entered
like a silken paraclete

and spoke in tongues
(Comment allez-vous?)
with lips
as red as early apples.

While music burned
and night
bled into day

her eyes said
I have my pride
and don't need pity.

In a room grown
cold as an epiphany,
her hands made
trembling love
to the ghost
of a cigarette.

Then she paused.

As if waiting
for the first stone
to be thrown.