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Indicative of the passion of the people on the 15th of April, 1865 Good Friday was the day Of the prodigy and crime, When they killed him in his pity, When they killed him in his prime Of clemency and calm— When with yearning he was filled To redeem the evil-willed, And, though conqueror, be kind; But they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness, And they killed him from behind. There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand. He lieth in his blood— The father in his face; They have killed him, the Forgiver— The Avenger takes his place, The Avenger wisely stern, Who in righteousness shall do What heavens call him to, And the parricides remand; For they killed him in his kindness, In their madness and their blindness. And his blood is on their hand. There is sobbing of the strong, And a pall upon the land; But the People in their weeping Bare the iron hand: Beware the People weeping When they bare the iron hand.

tonight      I started walking back to you father it was meant to be a stroll but then I started walking faster      father      I started chanting all the names of all the men I ever went to bed with      father      my thighs were burning and my feet were heavy with blood but I kept the pace and chants of names up      father listed them to fence posts and the trees and didn’t stop and started getting younger father and walked all night till I was home just a spark in your groin again and told you not to bring me back to life told you I repented every name and had freed them of me father

I did not call to the Holy Spirit or whistle My lordy, lordy, Nor hum one scintilla of shame. What hid in the grass Was neither skiver nor savior, neither cheater nor ace. Besides, the doves peering over the gutters have all gone awry. If I’m only a man, born far from a boomer’s shack— Hoarding sawbucks, cherry-picking the hicks like prey, And the wusses, and the Horacian declaimers, and the lucky Grubbers who master heartache and lurk like crooks Among the rich and the rebadged—then I’m a rival devil, Carrying my brag like a brakeman. And the one certainty, That life is to be lost—and no matter the opinion, someone’s Always a fool—has me rubbed inside like a lonely breed With the swill edgy and chic and rough. Who asks: Who needs a cotton-eyed hymn to say what the old shanty By the track has meant to the human story?

My mother is obsessed with reading about Jesus these days. I see books piled by her bed, most of them borrowed from my library: novels, handbooks, sectarian polemics, writers coming to blows. Sometimes when I’m passing by her room she calls on me to step between them and resolve their disputes. (A little while ago I came to the aid of a historian called Kamal Salibi, whose forehead had been split open by a Catholic stone.) What a diligent reader she is when she’s searching for Jesus, this woman I never failed to disappoint: I was not martyred in the first intifada, nor in the second, nor in the third. And just between you and me, I won’t be martyred in any future intifada either, nor will 
I be killed by some booby-trapped stork. As she reads, her orthodox imagination crucifies me with every page.... while I do nothing but supply it with more books and nails.

Dieser Flucht folgt Eros, night Verfolger, sondern als Liebender; dergestalt, daß die Schönheit um ihres Scheines willen immer beide flieht: den Verständigen aus Furcht und aus Angst den Liebenden . . . Ob Wahrheit dem Schönen gerecht zu werden vermag? —Walter Benjamin Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes, upon one double string. —John Donne blood in my eyes for you —traditional No one comes here anymore. I have a token NO I have an idea NO I was washed up on a lab table, in the traditional manner. “Everybody wants to say the joyful joyfully, and I finally saw it, when I was destroyed.” Talk all you like, you’re already dead. ** Mary, would you like to come outside? Mary worked so long and hard In the palace of black and white. Mary knows things I don’t know. She knows every tear I’ve cried. She gave her life to seeing sight. Mary, Mary, when will you come outside? ** Well, we have these instruments ** Beauty is a tooth. Correction: The telephone rang. I was looking At brown, there’s a history I’m not getting into, beauty Is still a tooth. Correction: Nobody wanted to go to the post office. ** Individually a vision, a vision Individuate. You manx. "Yeah, it’s that paper that lights up When you look at it.” But why did The ground start moving? Catch up. She knew it was happening before It started to happen. Catch up. “What did you do, pay for Those eyes?” ** Opaque:   the rose is not red until your eyes fall upon it. Translucent:   the rose is not red until your eyes. Transparent:   the rose is not red. ** Etc. Look, the story concerns Mary, and Mary alone. Mary alone in her colorless tower. Snow will fall, day turn to night, and not even postmen evade her sight, Lidless, fulfilling the ancient dream, she sees the tanks roll into Gaza And dieters, she sees with all-encompassing eyes the shredding of orders, Kids sneaking into The Story of O, the football scrimmage, and Manhattan Ending, she sees the end of Paris and Fort Worth, she watches subways melt Sleeplessly, she knew how it all would work out, she trains her dials on the death Of kings sitting sadly by the waterfront shacks, she sees beyond the genius Of Edwards Teller, Hopper, and Lear. You and I are the trouble she’s seen. Mary, wouldn’t you like to come outside? Mary, Mary, when will you come outside? ** The sky was black. The sky was blue. I was sitting someplace. I saw it. ** The community got together, as communities will, And waited together for death. Some of us Were colorblind, so when they lifted the red flag To signal the drink, we had to be prodded By neighbors. In a couple of cases, There were clusters of the colorblind, after all A genetic trait: these familial bands Required repeated prodding by strangers On the outskirts. It produced a wavelike pattern, All this prodding, so that to an outside observer, One tuning in from remote satellite, for example, It was reminiscent of a Busby Berkeley scene, Or one of those marching band routines In which the scrambling about of the sousaphone players Suddenly blossoms into a starfish or some kind of Risqué joke. But within fifteen minutes or so, The prodding subsided, and after that the drinking, The twitching, and we all lay dead in the field. ** After she emerged, she saw red, and it was red. She emerged, and saw yellow. She saw blue. After she emerged, she saw what green was like. She saw purple and orange and gray.

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go. It followed her to school one day, Which was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school. And so the teacher turned it out, But still it lingered near, And waited patiently about Till Mary did appear. Why does the lamb love Mary so? The eager children cry; Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know, The teacher did reply.

This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-water'd lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all,—yet wept till sunshine, and felt aw'd: Because the fulness of the time was come.

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day — That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school. And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear. And then he ran to her and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said — "I'm not afraid — You'll shield me from all harm." "What makes the lamb love Mary so," The little children cry; "O, Mary loves the lamb you know, The Teacher did reply, "And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind."

Because the ostracized experience the world in ways peculiar to themselves, often seeing it clearly yet with such anger and longing that they sometimes enlarge what they see, she at first saw Brigantine as a paradise for gulls. She must be a horseshoe crab washed ashore. How startling, though, no one knew about her past, the scandal with Percy, the tragic early deaths, yet sad that her Frankenstein had become just a name, like Dracula or Satan, something that stood for a kind of scariness, good for a laugh. She found herself welcome everywhere. People would tell her about Brigantine Castle, turned into a house of horror. They thought she'd be pleased that her monster roamed its dark corridors, making children scream. They lamented the day it was razed. Thus Mary Shelley found herself accepted by those who had no monster in them — the most frightening people alive, she thought. Didn't they know Frankenstein had abandoned his creation, set him loose without guidance or a name? Didn't they know what it feels like to be lost, freaky, forever seeking who you are? She was amazed now that people believed you could shop for everything you might need. She loved that in the dunes you could almost hide. At the computer store she asked an expert if there was such a thing as too much knowledge, or going too far? He directed her to a website where he thought the answers were. Yet Mary Shelley realized that the pain she felt all her life was gone. Could her children, dead so young, be alive somewhere, too? She couldn't know that only her famous mother had such a chance. She was almost ready to praise this awful world.

In my end is my beginning prologue With a sharp comb dipped in ink I’ve tattooed my life story all over my body. I’ve tattooed the footprints of my children — this way 
I carry their walking with me; the footprints of my twins who died before their feet touched the ground. And the footprints of my one-year-old son, James, whom I pray for daily. i: dent-de-lion Because I bore the lion of my father’s country my Maries and I picked dandelions — lion’s teeth. All our childhood we picked them — blowball, cankerwort, doon-head-clock, witch’s gowan, monk’s head, priest’s crown, worm rose Mary Queen of Scots Mary Queen of Scots I held their gold beneath my chin; imagined the lion rampant — its tongue, its claws on my skin. When I find the tallest stalk I know how much I’ll grow. I weave their sun bells into my wedding bouquet. When I blow seeds from the puffball and three remain — three children will I bear. Mary Queen of Scots Mary Queen of Scots ii: the caulbearer When he was born a shimmer of womb-skin stretched across his face — I knew then he would always be with me. I carried the caul through all my years in captivity. I imagined the membrane attached to his plump baby face like a coral headdress; I spoke to it, willed it to carry my letters, my messages into the drowning depths of his night sleeping head. iii: daffadowndilly Despite the westerly gales, despite the persistence of snowfall the daffodils are opening. They are opening the way tapestries, labored at one stitch at a time, suddenly arrive at something whole. Mary is stitching her name over and over, pulling the threads through her long fingers. For nineteen years her name has been a plaything. The ends of her fingers weave puns and anagrams. She is a woman of many names — she has woven a self to match each name — Tu te Marieras Veritas Armata Sa Vertue M’attire Tu as Martyre And the daffodils, they too have many names — Daffadowndilly, Narcissus, Lenten lily, Easter bell. How they weave themselves out of the grass, out of the green shoots and sheathed leaves; heads hung, necks waiting to be snapped. iv: the mermaid and the hare Though all my life I’ve worn dresses of mohair, damask, or serge, stiffened in the neck with buckram; though I wear breeding layers of petticoats, farthingales expanded with hoops of whalebone; they’ve removed my heart-shaped cap, my mourning veil, stripped me bare to the waist, replaced my silver hose-covered legs with the wet mucus of a fish tail. Two husbands dead — they visit me nightly. In dreams my hands turn into gudgeons, chubs, loaches; the white magic of a hare biting at my heels. v: snowdrops When they are ready they send for her. There are so many of them — men who must watch her die. The snowdrops outside her window change color in the sunrise. She is tired. She has lain awake all night. She is dressed in black with a long white veil — a caul to keep her son close to her. She counts the pearl acorn buttons on her satin dress; she counts the double string of rosary hanging from her waist. Her God is ready for her; his body hangs above her and she carries his cross into the great hall. Pearl queen — she imagines the hall is filled with pearls and the pearls are snowdrops. Into the sheer purity of it she will fall. She is going into the arms of her mother. In blood she came, in blood she will go — stripped to red petticoat, red bodice, red sleeves. She feels herself glowing in the center of the hall — sister to the fireplace; curls burning around her pale face, her auburn eyes. Hunkering for final prayer she commits herself, kneels to the block; hot fur, breath, the pounding heart of her lapdog pressing against her leg. She gasps as the phoenix in her chest breaks apart her body with two blows — one from each wing as it rose. vi: red and white Though it was the color of mourning, for my wedding I wanted to wear white — The color of fresh snow and milk The color of Isis and for wrapping the dead The color cloaking the early monks The color of the sacrificial lamb The color of the transfiguration of our Lord The color of the unicorn My colors are red and white — a white veil flows from my pale face and tight red curls. When I walk in the garden I scatter sunlight. I am titanium white I am Sirius I am an Arctic fox My heart is ermine I am a white horse ridden by Conquest; you will remember my name.