Magdalene: Before

God is always previous. Before
the serpent in the garden or the bite
my mother took to damn my unborn soul—
before my father’s foolishness and flight,
before the curse and coats of skins and all—
God meditated thus within his heart.

God is always previous. Indeed,
they say we are his children. So. Then why,
why sow his seed where it will surely spoil?
A father’s matter and a mother’s mud:
deep roots decaying in unhallowed soil!

God is always previous. Before
I came to birth, my seed was in decay.
The shootling sprang, the leaves were thin and ill,
the blighted blossoms chilled and fell away.
The stem put forth a single withered flower,
and of my fruit—who can deny but say
its scent is bitter and its taste is sour?

God is always previous. Before
a tomb I stood and raised the deathly cry.
And from the mud and from the thistled earth
the hyssop sprang. The early morning sky
begot a dew upon the grudging ground.
The rocks sang out. A gardener passed by
and said “Whom do you seek?”
The world around
turned over on its old decaying crust
and he—since He was previous—drew nigh
and caught me as I fell into the dust.

This article appears in October 2025.