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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

When the Mayor read the Bishop’s letter, he returned Margery’s bag and instructed Thomas to take her home. People wanted her to leave that part of the country. She walked a few steps ahead as Jesus did, but no further because, unlike Jesus, she needed her audience in earshot. She would go to heaven on a path running through the minds of Thomas and others who listened. The Mayor had detained her for three weeks.

39

L., as Jesus, lounges on his side and unbuttons the fly of his gray rayon slacks; he fishes out his cock and balls and drapes them across his thigh to the mattress so their exposure isolates their pendulousness. His lip, snagged on a tooth, duplicates the shape of his cock’s ragged mouth. A pale band of skin between his shirt and trousers was dented by the elastic of his boxer shorts. He’s controlling his breath. Infinitely passive, he’s subject himself to the clamor his body makes. He pushes my hand away.

Although I travel, I’m deflected from my goal. I never encountered nakedness that was not also an invitation. My heart beats with useless excitement. He struggles to understand a rage inside himself. Is my love amazing because it exists? Does it verify my existence or are my tears merely the faulty plumbing of an hysteric? L.’s cock testifies to the human form he chose—so strange to him that he will not let me touch it, as though keeping co-conspirators from meeting.

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Thomas was unhappy like steady rain; he could barely keep up with Margery. He had a sore on his tongue, a hard kernel that was killing him. The August sky was clear with a white cloud range to the south. Margery needed to keep moving, to re-predicate herself in different contexts.

Two yeomen blocked her path. One leaned on the staff of his lance, the other draped his hand on the pommel of his sword. Margery said, “Whose men are you?”

They opened their palms in explanation, “The Duke of Bedford’s men!”

The Duke of Bedford was Henry’s brother and, in the King’s absence, the most powerful man in England. Fourteen years later, in 1431, Joan of Arc would be burned under Bedford’s eye for false enchantments and sorcery. His yeomen wore studded green-leather crossbelts and their teeth were blue from eating blackberries.

One smelled his blue finger and put it in his mouth. He had a pressing memory: after they’d had a swim, his partner pushed his legs over his head and rimmed him. He had writhed, amazed by a cool shifting fire closer to wherever it was that he was than any other sensation. He thought his friend had broken the rule against worshiping idols. They’d been so rattled they gazed into each other’s eyes with unguarded expressions.

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