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for Eavan Boland

Not My Muse?

Mamo__a__story_of_geraldine_plunkett_dillon_by_isolde_obrolchain_carmodyby Isolde ÓBrolcháin Carmody06 Feb 2014

Condemned to compassion,
We are forced into caring;
We cannot help but to feel a bond.

But this is no dark cell
Of swords and phalluses,
Stones of law and bricks of religion;
But a mesh of spun gold,
Encircling us to project its light.

Look closer, here;
No currency of business
As material there,
And no Rumpelstiltskin
To ghost-write our task.

It is women’s hair,
Soft and strong
And woven inseparably
So that it might have grown this way,
All a-tangle.

I gather my materials;
Earth, twigs, hair, feathers,
Food, children, dust, bricks.
You might think I was nesting.

To see me build is awkward.
I have refused to inherit
System or method.
I must use that supposed intuition;
Fed with passion, pruned with intellect
And artificed by body.

After toil and trouble
A shape becomes apparent…

Here is your body, Eavan;
I have shaped you as my muse.