in their minds, whenever
this mother-of-mothers mantle
hangs heavy

upon my shoulders, so cross-like. I

shuck it, this Monday-morning blue
gown, as if a second skin

shedding it (in ecdyasy), and
wonder, ponder (as
always)
in my heart

this once white-as-mother’s-
milk skin
that now looks, a little

curdled
round the lids, so for them
I’m layering on
the lamé (gold leaf, of
course) atop my crinkled crow’s feet,

slip into something slinky,
blood-red
not purple, not royal, nor regal but
lipstick-, fingernail-, 5-alarm-
Fire-Engine RED

step into a pair of
crinoline stiletto heels,
3” tall, black and
shiny, as Judas’ patent leather

heart, and last and not the least
I trowel
the mascara on, deep and rich and

thick sky blue, cobalt
glow-in-the-dark, hell-on-earth
azure blaze
sprinkled with
a million sequins, a
constellation o’er each eye,

as when before it came to pass

on some Holy Night
I like, when on my back, eye-
ing (through the Midnight Clear)
each twinkle, pondering

still,
calm, bright, silent, so Stellar
the Bethlehem night, at peace,
no longer then their

New Testament Barbie™ let be.

Carl Winderl, earned a Ph.D. from New York University in Creative Writing. The poem appearing here is from The Gospel According . . . to Mary, to be published later this year by Finishing Line Press. The Lost Parables of Jesus will now be published late next year by Finishing Line Press