Thursday Night Poetry Blogging

I do not have a personal relationship with this Goddess, but a number of her friends have been posting this poem, and so I will make bold to post it here. It meets Archibald MacLeish’s requirement that “A poem should not mean/But be,” and I post it here because it gave me real goosebumps, which is always a sure, certain, and definite sign that the magic is working.

Morrigan Visits Hobby Lobby

~ c.–Kate Holly-Clark, 2014

That morning, they should

have paid attention to the woman

washing blood off the Lexus

in the parking lot.

The doors bang open to the conference room

with a gesture from Her long thin fingers

and walks inside with a wild wind

snatching at papers, swirling the toupees

but somehow not ruffling

a single feather of Her

long cloak of ravenblack.

did you think She says
that I would not know what you are doing?

They all see stars; these godly men and women

for a moment, so bright and burning

their eyes water and
they find themselves in

the ribbon aisle.

She shakes one marble arm from the cloak
sweeps sideways with Her hand

a thousand cawing crows fill the air

the ribbons start slithering

and entwine their feet
with the fear of a teenage girl

caught between

the baby and the coat hanger

Did you think I would not know what you are doing to

My daughters and sons? She says

a rain of pink and yellow kitty buttons ping off their heads
each stinging pain

a mother struggling to feed two children

afraid a third
will starve them all

My daughters and sons and mothers and fathers

and nieces and nephews will not forget says She

zebrastriped ottomans slam into them
with the blows to the gut

of endometriosis gone out of control

the bleeding endlessly into anemia

dizziness dropping them to their knees
cramps as if their guts are being drawn

and wrapped around trees

Sons of the hounds, She cries, COME HERE AND GET MEAT!

Finn MaCool and Herne sweep in at the head

of caroling, slavering gabrielhounds

and the wind’s roaring is so loud they think

their ears will explode and the crashing

of painted crystal and flower vases is

the continous roar of the ocean

they are cut with a thousand tiny shards of glass
their faces all scratches and tiny tears of blood streaming

puking up with fear

like 8 hours after Plan B
feet anchored to the floor with

layer after layer of Disney stickers

and terror of the Phantom Queen

My children choose, says She.
Not you. not in My name

not in My dominion

not for My daughters and sons and mothers and fathers and lovers

not for My children and My non-children

they are Mine and you shall not interfere in My name

the battles they fight are Ours and sacred

no matter what they decide, My children are blessed

they can hear Her voice like dreadful bells

clear right through the hurricane
up under the suspended ceiling
the tiles rippling like an earthquake
dust and glitter swirling through the air

so thick the light is gray

She sweeps back Her cloak
both hands palms down

there is a silence that rings as loud as Her voice

the hounds and the heroes file neatly out the

automatic doors that crunch across

the broken glass

The Battle Crow eyes the board members

one by one with bright black eyes

stripping them down

to their profits and loss
their knees shaking

like they had worked eighteen hours

on an assembly line making wreaths and bows

for a dollar a day

Do not invoke god in your decisions for your fellow folk, She says
until you know Who will answer.

Picture found here.