On Rodin's
Christ and Mary Magdalen, 1894
 
when you have
nothing
left to give
real love begins
where her anguished hands
embrace your bitter and lonely carcass
gently as when angels' wings
brushed against your cheeks
her tears mingle freely with your
old sweat, blood
and solitary thoughts shed
in those final
apocalyptic moments
and your head bows
into her shoulder
with all the
acceptance of everything
you could never
ask her for
 
Previously published in The Blue House 2004