I find the well where women come to draw
at twilight for their wash. They’re flowers in the dark,
I’ll call them by their flower names: Carnation,
Lily, Lily, Rose. Arbutus. Dahlia,
Calla – call her Mary, call them each a Mary,
Mary Quite Contrary, mother Mary,
even Mary of the seven names:
Mary of the spikenard jar who salved my feet ;
Mary of the sobbing ears who rapt
my anecdotes while quite immobile;
Mary of the village square who flogged the law
and Mary who collected devils in her tears
for me. You ladies of my evening walks,
you girls from paintings hung in cities and renown,
you Mothers from the proverbs watching households well
and buying fields while dropping your spare change
into my kingdom pouch unseen, unknown.
You sisters sitting still and darning up the better parts.
I find your well where all you sip at twilights
silent, and I slip into your in betweens
to ask you to my garden first, some three days hence,
at first light then, apostles will be sleeping
but your names which fold like petals in a single bloom
you, Marys, even Mary of the seven names,
come see me first, in sun, and I will name you First.