Lilies tangle in her hair: green stems
Like water-snakes.
A disembodied hand
Floats on the surface. So much has been lost
Already: toes, the lobe of her left ear.
But this remains, a damp, immaculate
Sign, like a message saved from the dark current.
She wandered through the courtyard in her tattered
Dress distributing wild violets.
She called us whores—your son ma'am, not your husband's
I think—and knaves—the taxes sir, your cellar
Is stocked with sweet Moselle. We called this madness.
Indicia of her innocence: to be
A maiden floating dead among the flowers.
She will become an elegant and mute
Image: the sodden velvet coat, the sinking
Coronet of poppies, virgin's bower,
And eglantine. The replicable girl.
(A blob of Chinese white becomes a hand.
The artist puts his brush in turpentine,
The model pulls her stockings on.)
And yet,
Surround by the water-lily stems,
Her face appears an enigmatic mask:
A drowned Medusa in her snaking hair.
The lilies gape around her like pink mouths,
Telling us nothing we can understand.
Her eyes stare upwards: dead and not quite dead.
by Theodora Goss
Darling:
ReplyDeleteCalling me a "sexist, fatuous ass" is something of a compliment, considering you list books by Starhawk as favorites of yours, and call yourself an "eco-femininst". The depths of the new-agey nonsense into which you have descended are reprehensible to me and to all traditional pagans. Your scorn is praise to me; it shows that I have successfully distanced myself from you and your kind- something I greatly desire to do.
At any rate, to call me sexist is not coherent; I in no manner view women as lesser beings, nor do I dispute their right to equal treatment and privilege in society. You can't see past your bullcrap feminist agenda, and I understand that. Just understand that the scorn of a new-ager is not an insult to me or to us. It's a sign that we're living right.