Third: Martin Domleo Mary The slut knew him better than anyone;
at his side on crowded knolls, blistered roads, at night under stars, sunrise in sheepfolds.
She carried water, washed feet, fed, clothed him, sweated, prayed, bantered, ached, kept faith and loved;
stayed in his shadow on that groaning hill long after others had fled in denial.
She was the disciple who wept, who cried for joy, breathed real air, breath of someone close.
Feeling hurt, yet calm in his after-glow, she left the city, trod the familiar road
to Galilee’s shore, discovered old friends, found a place to stay, make sense of events.
Then set down a gospel so charged with truth that, centuries down-stream, men of power
and sway, declared it worthless, denied its provenance, took it away from public view.
The mist enclosed Mary just as surely, leaving the whispers, the pointed fingers, echoes of senators in smoke-filled rooms.
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