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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 discarded her dumb love and abandoned her. From there, Margery might have advanced to real faith—a vocation begun in tears, cracked open as she was, left for dead as she was. I don’t know what that faith would be. Margery did not accept this emptiness; instead, she dilated on the point of rejection.

53

Margery woke before dawn when she had nothing. She pulled a blanket over her body as though she were sick but she was also the disease, a noxious failure she wanted to hide. She covered her eyes from shame. She had been abandoned forever, a verdict passed for the first time each second. She couldn’t speak. During the day her surroundings and companions joined in her broad prosaic failure but the fact of rejection startled her as though she were falling down a stairway.

Anxious desolation of the day became anxious desire at night. She had come to a halt but her being was still hurtling. Her membranes rang with anticipation. Her muscles twitched and tugged and when she came her body slowly curled towards the hateful excitement like paper towards a flame. The soft explosions could not consume the tenderness she felt for Jesus. She had made an impossible wish. Now she had nothing but vehement desire that was so exasperated she turned her face and threw out her hands as though to a witness.

Because she desired Jesus she didn’t realize that in their separation he got what he wanted. Her cunt dripped like the shinbone of a saint that weeps in continuous relation to God. Her hips rolled, her nipples hardened, her tissues hurt with pleasure. Her body was still his lover. Ecstasies boiled up and popped just under her skin in steady bursts, the physical evidence of destitution. She rubbed herself wearily. What gesture indicates the desire for more life? When she heard a creak, she thought it was his foot on the tread.

His voice, a clarinet; his eyes, blue geodes; the tilt of his head; the hair tumbling down his brow; his dazzled expression; his small translucent teeth; his pointed tongue; his straight back; the vein running down his inner thigh; the ankle and the arch. He is already breaking into parts. More than that: Margery’s urge to strip Jesus, to complete him, to uncover, to make him respond and respond. There is no body that precedes his body yet it is overwhelmingly passive. Panicked, she looks for it in continual expectation of making love. She separates his knees, opens his crotch; her hand on his hip rotates his torso; she shoves his knees to his ears, his asshole contracts, the amazing flesh moves as the floor slides out from under her. She tips his head back, exposes his throat. Trying to explain him she dismantles a complex of refinements—ropy strands of sperm—there won’t be any Jesus after Margery outdoes the cross.

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