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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 was sitting next to her. He was birdlike, with a short pointed nose and complete arches over his eyes. He had bone-tipped shoulders and she recognized in his ideal posture and long neck her own “hidden” aristocracy. Sandy brown hair fell across his lofty forehead but he was a blond. His beauty seemed intentional because she desired it. He wore a short purple tunic. Tiny pink nipples were visible on his milky breast.

Jesus gazed up past his brow at Margery. His irises were disorganized blue geodes. He had been crying all weekend—it was Monday morning and he was still crying. He whispered, “I’m so abandoned.” He raised his head in sadness and his face held the slow joy of deep sky above the sun.

He stood and turned on the balls of his feet and began to ascend. Margery fell half asleep when she saw the deity turn away. She felt the strongest sensation of her life, a welling of aspiration and desire embodied in the blur of dusty gold, the long smeared shadow of neck and spine, his broad hips, the semicircles of his ass, his long slightly knock-kneed legs. He rotated near the ceiling; she became conscious of the weight of her breasts and the hair down her back. The splayed tips of his long toes floated past her eyes. He raised his arm as darkness closed in. Later she concluded he was pointing to heaven.

Margery’s ropes lay unknotted. She climbed out of bed and pulled back the heavy shutters. It was not dawn at all—plain light flooded the room without fanfare along with bird chatter and salty wind. An afternoon in Lynn, 1396.

2

Margery and John lay in a high bed covered in blue buckram with blue hangings. She raised her watery eyes as though someone were walking across the roof. She had opened a brewery in Lynn; it failed in four years. John snored a faint rasp and wind sighed in the reed beds. Encountering resistance, Margery regrouped and set a higher goal. She became a miller and failed even sooner. John snored lightly; he was ten years older than Margery. He had auburn hair, thick arms and thighs. The hair on his chest was black cashmere, the nipples hard to find. His hair was part of the darkness.

John gathered the covers in sleep and bunched them under his chin. Margery listened; behind her boredom, a wash of ecstasy. She heard along with the silence and snoring a delectable music. Margery was thirty-one and Jesus was thirteen years younger; his welling choir cheered in her body. Flames from the pit of her stomach fanned through joints and membranes, a suggestion of wings in brilliant cobalt space, fiery stars where bodies should have been. John raised his big head reluctantly as Margery jumped down from their bed, shouting: “Ecstasy in heaven!”

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