The Anointing

Baptism of fire, the oil 
dripped and was assuaged by 
a linen napkin the gentle 
press of strange fingers on my 
I was in a burning dream, the gap 
widening between my surroundings 
and my mind, the angel 
never came, the beam 
of light withdrawn and
in the darkness I saw faces 
unrecognised.    The moment was 
real but void, there but 
nullified, the cold church of my 
heart echoed
and there was no answering word. 
I did not turn round beautiful, 
too pale, too alabaster for the 
self to stand there as 
woman - orphaned
to the arms of time and space.    The 
silence crowded in and the 
words emptied themselves - there 
was no Mary-ing, no 
virgin moment when I
changed and was arrowed by 
angel seed to grow.   Unwombed 
I was left, fallow and 
broken by the hardship of the 
wood I had to swallow.
The moment never came, the 
iron was hard, the stave 
unyielding and I turned to 
face the vacancy, cup the ugly 
giftlessness in my two nerveless hands.
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