A Plebeian questions Mary

by kdillmanjones

Baal awakened the storms,
setting the world alight–
nothing feels right–
all so the world can witness
something real.

The Plebeian prays
to certain gods–
busts of kin?–
chills in her skin.
She stumbles on terms,
grasps for names,
then slatternly turns
to Mary.

How did you spell that name,
that divine name,
chanted by so many?
Was the m from mayim,
for water,
a goddess of the sea?
Or was the namesake Mari,
exotic jewel
of the Great Euphrates?

Did Baal keep you up at night,
haunting your sleep
robbing your dreams,
ripping at seams,
filling the night with anger?

Who did you pray to?
Was it El-Shaddai?
Sister Sarai?
YHWH and his Asherah?

Who did you call out to–
reach for–
when storms
ripped open your heart?

How many tears spilled
when you made cakes
for the Queen of Heaven?

Did you mean to be deified?
Reified?
Were you horrified?

And who are you,
really?
Who did you want to be?
And what did you leave
us?

At what point
were you simply a mother,
calling out for your mother?

The storms calmed
and the Plebeian slumbered.
She would awake
to floods,
destruction,
the battlefield of the gods.
And she would take
joy:
in holding her child,
in weaving and cooking,
in forgetting the questions
of a sleepless night.

_______________________________________

About these ads