Mommy and Me and, My Lovers

The parts of ourselves we cannot bear. The parts we cannot bear to bare. Do we take them out, outside the self, to behold, instead, as images of idols? Do we cast them out as evil spirits, too unlike our preferred selves? A curt unavailable mother – through natural exhaustion or unresolved personal trauma – shall we cleanse this memory and make her merry? Remake her into Mary? Every one who ever tried, to mother, no matter the outcome. No matter the shape of the child – a poem, a cat baby, a sullen forty-year-old mothered by her eldest, cradling the anima. What shall we call the remainder of her shady fraction? A witch? A step- Mary? Magdalena? What shall we call that, which overpowers all the barriers, strips our defences, a spiritual experience so mighty it engulfs the flesh? JC, a son of the sun? Of god or goddess? The ultimate love(r)? These parts of you, baring the faces of these people – hear them sing, crying out in ecstasy, crying themselves to sleep, hear them scream, a cleansing sound, for you, within you.

The Song of Christofer

‘And Mary, you shall have a sun,’ – they say, more or less.
We come bearing gifts, starstruck.
Your hips a radiant vessel, polished by the clay master’s hand.
Meanwhile, I carry the child, and the burdens of the world, on my shoulders.
A boy god, a man child. My likeness.
‘Take your five-year-old self by the hand,’ – they say.
And his weight will drown me.
Now you carry his body, as if he were your baby again.
Needles in his vein.
Don’t they all wish to curl back up into your lap like so?
And on the third morn, the golden nimbus shall rise, rousing him.
Was it him who made your arms, and mine? Had them custom-made, to cradle himself? So as not to drown?

What Makes Her Mary, Recipe Revisited

Milk, 1 litre daily. So is every woman publicly nursing her child a contemporary Madonna? Potential or an actual saint? Does it matter if it’s a boy or a girl? What if her breasts are barren? What if she adopted the child?

Woman, 1, a single one. What if it’s a dad? One of two dads? A dad who used to be a mom? A late blooming butch? Where is parent #2 in that picture anyway? And the rest of the village it takes to raise a human?

Patience, ad infinitum. What if she rages – Kali then? An evil step-mom? Is she more of a Gaia or Mother Goddess if she chooses home birth? Is it possible we’ve burned some of them as witches… accidentally?

Faith, add to taste. Surely talking to your baby during pregnancy isn’t prayer? How did she guess the name?

Veil, 1, blue. So it’s of no consequence whether she’s shaved her legs, her armpits? If she’s managed to wash her hair, and what colour it was, and what length? How much weight she’s gained or if her feet are swollen? If one or both of her legs are deformed, unable to walk?

Virgin, 1, mis-translated. Do all of them grow up to be M… Wait, she chooses not to procreate, to marry Him rather than mothering a him or a her, and still she won’t make the cut for the crescent moon poster girl?

Sebastian Dances the Pole

My body coiling, writhing, winding around the axis, releasing that tension between the shoulder blades, my neck, down down silk slipping from my hips. Arching my back, parting my thighs, look at me, man. I am your lanky feline. Your bondage, hands behind my back. Bound to you. I submit. Your arrows pierce me, hard. More than once.
There is no safe word.

Hans Baldung, Christ as Man of Sorrows at the Column of Flagellation, 1512. Albertina Museum 

Tattletale Dove

Coo-coo, Mary! As you may or may not have heard, you seem to have birthed quite a prominent lover. Leaving a curious trace of desire, and touch, somehow managing to avoid bitter exes. Trans. Temporal. Trans. Sexual. Trance. Probable.
Bernard of Clairvaux has been telling all about His kiss on the mouth. John of the Cross is still stumbling blindfolded in the darkness:
‘Where have You hidden, beloved, and left me moaning?’
‘…Hey JC JC, won’t you fight for me…’ Don’t make John wait.
Meanwhile, Catherine of Siena beckons to Him, – ‘Sweet Love’
As her wedding band sparks in the sun
The Fisherman’s Ring they pass one to the next.
No, I’m afraid that’s not all, mother Mary, in fact, it only gets more explicit. Your son seems to have thrust His arrow, so to say, into Theresa of Avila, as well as Sebastian mentioned above.
And Thomas even proceeded to get his fingers inside Him, with reverend fear. Indeed, they are all still keen to eat Him, on the regular, in fact He encouraged them to take Him in their mouths.
Coo-coo! Did you really not know? Mother dearest, do I hear you cough? I imagine reading through these might make a traditional Mary like you quite uncomfortable.
No need to shoot the post pigeon, just a messenger, I’m sure you can hear someone writhing in the throes of passion as we speak, now and forever.

Lorenzo Lippi (Neapolitan school), Saint Sebastian, 1628–1640. Slovak National Gallery 

Agata Orlovska, Revetment of Our Lady of the Gate of Dawn, 2024. Photo: Drifts gallery 

Agata, Jon, and Elena. Painting through the Gates of Dawn

Three gates. Three mothers. All Marys. No dawn.
In her 20s, Agata forges a simple metal cage around you. Straightening, covering, beating out every bit of you, till the smooth grey surface is a cold shield – for your or against you? ‘My shadowless mother,’ – she stretches, – ‘I grow towards thee.’ In his 40s, Jon paints, not with light, no, none of that’s left. It’s a smoke dance, tempting fire with his canvas. ‘I deserve the grace lifting my hand. I deserve guidance. And a guide, a guy. I serve. De I?’
In her 60s, the fire is red and golden, Elena gets chestnut leaves sprouting out of the shield. You come to her, adorned. Gaia, Maya, Maria. Alas a-last sigh(t).

Bernardine Cemetery: Marys and Magda’s Closure

Marble Mary of plot 212, Queen of Heaven: Have you seen the new cross they put up at the family plot next to me? How many years has it been since the father passed – eight, nine? My husband got this made for me, well, for us, within a year, by master Kozlowski.
Concrete Maries of plots 107 and 117: Kids these days…
Concrete Mary of plot 115, Mother of Grace: Doesn’t look nearly as bad as the two ladies they stuck in around me. Recycling bits of floor from a soviet canteen, are we…
Limestone Mary of plot 61: Eco-friendly..?
Granite Mary of plot 275, Co-Redemptrix: Can’t blame them, Queen, who can afford marble these days. Black granite, is it? Typical mid-range.
Limestone Mary of plot 455: Elegantly smooth and cold to the touch – just like their mother. Didn’t even wait for her to die, carved the name in already.
Limestone Mary of plot 61: Marble… Therapy is what they can’t seem to afford! At least Mother of Grace has got a visitor. Oh look, it’s her daughter Magda! Look at her sticking those hyacinths in there, the ground has barely thawed. And would you listen to her thoughts…
Granite Mary of plot 275: Oh, don’t you get involved…
Limestone Mary of plot 455: Uh-oh, don’t mention the missing hands of Mother of Grace… Maybe Magda was never meant to play the piano, poor child.
Magda: There! Would you stop with the dreams now?! Tsk… Bloody nail! Typical you, never good enough is it! I drove all the way out here, running all over town to find a flower shop that’s open, and of course it’s the wrong kind of flowers… Bloody mother, always the martyr… Raising a child like an elite project – that shouldn’t be allowed! Ok, inhale-exhale.
All the Marys: Inhale-exhale, darling child, you are held, you are supported.
Magda: I’m dropping your guilt, rolling it down my shoulder blades, like a Sisyphean stone. Rolling your words out of my ear, like a Sepulchre stone. Those hands, those words cannot hurt me any more. I am my own mother. I won’t be yours.