Mary, the Magdalene

Geodess, Eric Fram

On Tuesdays I am Mary,

the Magdalene 

with wrinkled skirts

and bruised vagina.

I hide in The Tomb and hold onto things

until they cut into my hands and

I only cry when I smell sweat.

On the other days I am Paul,

holding corpses to sunlight

until they hear sky.

I keep my legs wrapped around 

the stomachs (of horses) 

and when She passes smoke 

to my lips, I tell Her to be silent in the churches,

lest another rock get caught between Her teeth.

If I could spend a night with Mary,

the Magdalene

I would take her into tombs 

that smelled of frankincense and marijuana: 


Sodom and Deborah. 

The gardener hears Her in the dark hours

of morning, he mistakes my long hair for holiness 

and Her lost clothes for angel wings.


resonates from behind the rocks but

the man who had been inside (of Her) has bled out 

by his hands and feet.

About the Author

Mathieson Byer · University of Connecticut

Mathieson Byer is currently working on her B.A. in philosophy at the University of Connecticut. She grew up in upstate NY, but plans to move to the city after graduation. “Marym the Magdalene” first appeared in The Long River Review.

About the Artist

Eric Fram · University of California

Eric Fram is a third year English major at UCLA with a concentration in Creative Writing, Poetry. He is the Arts Editor and a Poetry Editing Staff member of Westwind, UCLA’s Journal of the Arts. He has been published by Westwind and Plum Tree Tavern, and “Geodess” first appeared in Westwind. Follow him on Twitter @ericsfram.

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