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Out of peat, rock, chump, gorse
— are you the Irish Persephone?
Sheela-na-gigue
imprisoned in a wall, crone
cuntradiction, skeletal
scrag
Yet the lower body holds open
to Hades? Is there an Irish god of death?
If there was, at 1200 AD, Sheela was his “bride.”
It is her knob-faced sickle-shadow in
reburgeoning oaks.
Her ribs bear breast paws.
Bishop’s whore, cardinal’s whore.
Life gate, hole, Dyadic apotropaion.
Compounded with negation, Sheela affirms.
Hunkered down, like her, I take a draught of the menstrual
orgasmic earth.
In my throat I feel her elixir, its black middle rainbow
band.
“Now,” purrs the cycloptic dwarf by the door,
“you have touched upon the Crone Congress.
Lightning will strike through your dreams.
In the greenish glare you’ll see the Sheelas,
like tots, dancing the Formorian jig.”
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