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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

Jesus hung before her in his manhood, his beauty tense as glass, his milky skin more full of holes than a dovecote, his long white feet nailed to the hard wood, blood gushing from every limb, the grisly wound beneath the tiny pink nipple—

When they came to the grave where Jesus was buried, fel sche down wyth hir wax candel (as Margery wrote), palms pressed against her breast, sweat streaming in icy rills. Two angels held her shoulders and a third lifted a tear from her cheek onto its thumbnail where it glistened in the brown-velvet shadows. The angel wore a white deacon’s robe. It deported itself like a maître d’ presenting rare brandy. Gazing at the tear with a hollow expression, Jesus felt the heat and weight of his cock snake across his thigh. He steadied the angel’s hand, lapped up the tear with his pointed tongue, and then it was the angel’s turn to steady Jesus: his legs trembled, he convulsed with pleasure as he clenched against it, an underwater scream. He slid to the side, gritting his teeth and groaning. His fine skin became invulnerable, the bright armor of the intoxicated. The angels’ inky wings were a melancholy flourish.

Margery and Jesus were reunited. “Don’t be ashamed to weep for Jesus . . . Mary Magdalene wasn’t ashamed.” Mary said this in a breathy whisper and wavered in mild pervasive distortion when Margery visited her grave; she cupped Margery’s breasts in her hands. She viewed Margery’s nipples as an opportunity to multiply flavor, skin tasting honey or sugar. Margery was too surprised to move and wondered what had chipped and dirtied Mary’s nails. Mary was naked beneath the thin chemise of a bathhouse attendant; a sheer scarf loosely hooked to her crown flowed downwards with her golden hair. “St. Stephen wore green tippets . . . when we stoned him . . .”

20

The pilgrims would not let Margery go to the River Jordan. Jesus said, “We’ll go whether they like it or not.”

Margery and Jesus followed them through a wilderness of thorns. The ground burned Margery’s feet and the distant rim didn’t even ripple. Hermits wearing cloth of thorn and camel hair ate locusts and sat grimacing on anthills as though easing into too-hot tubs. Vultures croaked and whistled, wings raised in pious attitudes. An oasis held a lake so clear it didn’t seem to exist; it made her want to laugh, weightless. She was so thirsty her tongue reached the water before her lips.