The first thought
was rage—
In certain systems, the point at which that thought
emerges from God’s mind is his consort,
but before she turns her rage onto the world, the violent
lords must give her the body of a woman which is not easy.
Imagine them standing around before they will trap
God’s vague thought into female flesh. The way
their robes undulate, the slightly yellowing raiment—
poor things.
They will not understand the rage.
It will be expressed forever in the split in things.
In the two-toned lupine,
in the cupped, silk lining of the tulip,
in the red and white of all armies in all wars,
it will bend over my dream wearing his face.
The moment my daughter was lifted
from me, that sticky
flesh screamed fury,
for she, too, blamed the female body—
I loved it that she screamed—
and I knew I had been sent to earth to understand that pain.
The nurses moved about, doing something
over to the left. Probably weighing her
on what looked like blue tin. The flash of non-
existence always at the edge of vision,
and in the next moment, some unasked-for radiance.
Under those lights,
the nurses seemed shabby—
the ivory lords, come haltingly
into the bridal chamber, slightly yellowing raiment.
The last pain on earth will not be the central pain,
it will be the pain of the soul and not the body,
the pain of the body will be long since gone,
absorbed into the earth, which made it beautiful—
don’t you love the word raiment?
Dawn comes in white raiment.
Something like that.