They say on Brigid's eve
The reeds must be gathered from the water's edge
By a woman with a covered head.
They used to say about the great mother goddess
That the one who saw her unveiled
Would go mad with the power of it.
Ireland gave me-
Wild hair, pale skin, the rosary
And stomach issues.
My great grandmother
Walks the streets of Canton with a brown paper bag of raspberry leaves, a headscarf tied under her chin
And a baby in her womb, veiled from the world.
The art of concealment is old magic
As priestesses in the temple and old women well know.
My great grandfather was, as they say, a swine
But knew the names of every plant and tree in the forest
He sailed over the world and still said the most beautiful women were in Wales
Where their skin glowed with rainfall and misty mountains.
The women could not sail away to find out for themselves so they did what women do;
Became keepers of the hearth fires
Like their mothers before them
Like the ancient priestesses of Bride.
They say she was midwife at the birth of Christ
And that she wove the reed cross to make her father swap the old faith for the new
But what if she was saying-
This is how women keep the world turning, turning, turning, renewing, protecting, ever new.
For after all, the first cross
Is cloaked in the womb.
