Sheela-Na-Gig

Her round bald pate, encircled
eyes, nose triangular,
her mouth a small vee

of hinted smile—
she's laughing, deadly earnest,
from the eaves

of Kilpeck's saintly church.
Amongst the corbels'
beasts and hunting dogs,

predator or prey
she's part of that hunt,

so defiantly female
centuries of vicars
left her untouched.

Her mockery,
serious as breath,
answers the question

where are we going:
where we come from.

Spindle legs bent,
arms curled under,

fingers bent and opening
the mouth of that cave,

holding its secrets
open to the world,
no less mysterious

for all of its blatancy,
those fingers almost daring us
to go inside, go inside

where everything revealed
is also swallowed,

where the opening
is clear but also a labyrinth.

This figure has the comic
forbiddenness of the word:
cunt. The hard-edged

beginning and end
with the interior
to get lost in.

The giving of power
adds to this power.
All the insult and all of the envy.

The welcoming toothless teeth
of such passive victory,

the open beckoning mouth of fate
swallowing us whole
innocent of motive, weaponless,

faithless, her laughter
owning us all.
 

© Neile Graham

First published in Sheela-na-Gig, a limited edition chapbook.