And Magdalene, after seven wasted years and dizzying hours of watching their blindness, heads to the desert, and this new space is a bowl God has made for her, and sand can be prayer, and stars eyes, and what can not be undone, skinned, turned inside out? Wind is her lover, the slim moon her torch, scorpions her servants with their wily calm, their armor— she longs for such armor. Here each thing shifts and slides, and nothing can be counted, or counted upon, the sun rules everything, even the cave, and she has never known such heat, its blast another kind of God, one not to be tackled— if this is a kiln, what mad potter placed her here, and can sweat be tears? her nakedness slick and proud, can it be armor? and nothing left between her and what comes close.