How Spring Came to the Magdalene by Tawni Waters

When Mary Magdalene loved Pan,
she spanned worlds. From him,

she learned to laugh again,
dancing as he played his pipes,
forgetting the fire.

He kissed the places in her palms where
the nails had entered, grinning
like even crucifixion was good fun
if you looked at it the right way.

He came to her in her dreams, yes,
but in the waking world too. Hungry,
she opened wide, took him on her tongue,
swallowing him whole, her blood screaming
his name afterward, a prayer.

She loved the reckless way he moved, crashing
through life like a hurricane. Nothing tentative about him.
He drank three bottles of wine and wanted more.
He ripped her veils away to see all of her white flesh.
He licked the milk of her up with his gleaming eyes.

Pan did not know the word no.
He was a walking yes.
He was a secret, not so well kept.
His smirk would tell you everything if you looked long enough.
And if you were lucky, he’d trace your inner thighs with his lips,
singing songs gods used to sing when the world was given to dancing.