Morrigan Visits Hobby Lobby
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.
Kate Holly-Clark is a professional storyteller, artist, and poet living in NH.
