Wicked Woman WeepingJill Alexander Essbaum
Jesus, the demons are seeking me out. So I beg it: put your mouth to my mouth and your eye upon my rickety lip, trembling to the harrow. I will hardship through the night, urgent as an animal if I have to, but the outlook’s dismal and since it’s neither new moon nor Sabbath, I haven’t really any claim. But with or without you, the devil shall come on. From the bottom of this glass of bourbon, shaky in my grasp, to the topmost two buttons of my doubtful red dress, askew, and someone comes to tempt me with his fresh, delicious fruit, full, wet and ripe. You blush? For the Jews, you became the Jew whose grave didn’t keep him. To the weak you became the very weakness which gathered them up. Who will you be for me? Something hyssop, something myrrh? Christ of the Shunammite’s grief, relieve me of this dirge. I shall not sing it anymore. You know the words, the tune. Fling down what mercies you can spare, and soon. Should I survive this furnace I’ll be safe tonight, and yours, all yours, a pretty thief stealing but a crust of your kindly bread. Then, I will mission my sins, maidenheads and martyrs, like a city at your door. Your eye is on the sparrow and the whore.
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