Recalling
Brigid
Orna
Ross
Queen
of queens, they called her
in
the old books, the Irish Mary.
Never
washed her hands, nor her head
in
sight of a man, never looked
into
a man’s face. She was good
with
the poor, multiplied food,
gave
ale to lepers. Among birds,
call
her dove; among trees, a vine.
A
sun among stars.
Such
was the sort of woman
preferred
as the takeover was made:
consecrated
cask, throne to His glory,
intercessor.
Brigid
said nothing to any of this,
the
reverence, or the upbraidings.
Her
realm is the lacuna,
silence
her sceptre,
her
own way of life its own witness.
Out
of desire, the lure of lust
or
the dust of great deeds,
she
was distorted:
to
consort, mother-virgin,
to
victim or whore.
I
am not as womanly
a
woman as she.
So
I say: Let us see.
Let
us say how she is the one.
It
is she who conceives
and
she who does bear.
She
who knitted us in the womb
and
who will cradle our
tomb-fraying.
Daily
she offers her arms,
clothes
us in compassion,
smiles
as we wriggle
for
baubles.
Yes,
it is she who lifts you aloft
to
whisper through your ears,
to
kiss with your eyes,
to
touch her cooling
cheek
to your cheek.
Image: by Raul Angel on Unsplash. "One in a million," Guatemala City, Guatemala.
First published on Instagram in February 2022, then on Orna's blog, Orna Ross, on 13 February 2022.
