I seek you
where the petals
of magnolia fall
and cherry blossom
see you fleeing the ideal
of pale flesh
running into the woods
seeing yourself everywhere
dew beads on bluebells.
Doomed to be beautiful
you want to tear off your face.
You want to sink your talons
into Lleu for whom you were made,
who acts like such a mummy’s boy
even though his mother disowned him,
refused to give him a name, weapons, a wife.
You hate this explanation for your being
and sate your hatred on loving Lleu
who did nothing wrong except be a man
in the wrong time and place.
You do not know who Gronw is
until he brings you the stag’s head,
antlers shadowed on your bedroom wall,
until you wake knowing you have
a soul and weep for the first time.
Seeing clearly you choose your fate –
you will kill to have your own way.
Eyes large and wide honeyed beak:
“Tell me how can you be killed?”
Every Sunday you help to polish
the shaft of the poisoned spear,
try to restrain hysterical laughter
as you round up the goats by the river,
strip him, sponge him in the bath,
help him into that ludicrous position,
one foot on the goat one on the rim,
stark bollock naked shining like the sun.
When the spear strikes the sun falls
from the sky and flies away as an eagle
and you are left in darkness already
a creature of the night – Flower Face,
petals wilting in your marital bed,
flying free embracing your dark truth.
When Gwydion speaks your true name:
Blodeuwedd he does not know what he
called up, bound, and released.