Closed, Do Not Enter
Our quest for Camelot near complete,
the Abbey graves, the Tor done,
but now a sign on the gate
to the Chalice Well –
the resting place of
the Last Supper cup,
the cup raised to collect
Christ’s sweat and blood
at his crucifixion,
deep red in sympathy,
the cup paraded through
the throne room
of the crippled Fisher King
able to cure him,
the cup, holiest one of all,
the Graal of King Arthur’s
court, finally earned by Galahad
for his purity of heart,
the cup given by Christ’s apparition
to Joseph of Arimathea,
who carried it straight to England,
placed it in this red-water well,
the cup that compelled us
to scale that gate.
Saint Kinga’s Salt
Chapel
At the head of the nave,
a salt altar enshrines
my unworthy remains.
Here I reflect on my
once uncrystallized,
unsainted life.
I yearned only to be a singular
whisper down a candled convent hall
and out to a cloister garden beneath
the Creator’s sky uncircumscribed.
But fashioned a queen, a saint,
I must spirit this salt shrine,
mined in my honour,
where salt chandeliers glitter for me
and salt-frescoed walls tell my story.
At the base of this deep shaft,
my statue stands, my salt robe etched
in scrolls, my hair laced pretty
about my face, my crown faceted.
A miner carved of salt
kneels before me, offers
a ring encased in a salt
crystal block.
I want neither ring, nor rock,
just quiet candles,
earth dew-softened,
the caress of air chilled
or thawed with the seasons –
heaven’s gift.
Constellation Pegasus
For bearing his thunderbolts,
Zeus stellified his stallion
in truth, more a celestial dishevelment,
than a heavenly horse,
leaving it for tale-tellers
to finish the picture –
his divine birth
from Poseidon’s godly foam
and dying Medusa’s blood,
his hoofed-up watersprings
on Helicon, invoking poetry
from rock,
his
soaring with Bellerophon
on his
back to kill the lion-headed,
snake-tailed
Chimera,
then
bucking him off,
for the
hubris of spurring him
too
near the heights of Olympus.
Zeus left his Great
White steed
as an upside-down half-a-horse
with two rickety legs,
a probable neck, maybe a muzzle,
but still a stallion open
to gallop across the night sky,
enough to carry his stories.
Orders from Your Fairy
Godmother
Fetch your flashlight, hide again
under your blanket,
your earliest castle built
just for you and the words.
Help Gretel stoke up her oven,
fan the flame. Shut down
the witch’s cackles. Cheer
her incineration.
Cry with the bullied duckling,
punish his tormentors,
exclude them from the party
so they feel what it’s like.
Shiver when the hungry wolf huffs
at the pigs’ unsturdy doors. Applaud
Pig Three. Clap when the big windbag
gets stymied.
Hop a fairy-dust ride in your
pumpkin chariot. Savor Cindy’s sweet revenge.
Dance when the shoe fits
and she marries the handsome
one.
Do not overstudy Hansel’s eating
habits, pity the witch’s wicked heritage,
or question the innocent beauty
of the swan’s white feathers.
For the literary life of you,
don’t ever forget whatever it was
that held you so enchanted
in that secret flashlight glow.
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