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Geraldine Green

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Santes Gwenffrewi

I
Santes Gwenffrewi, bless me for I,
bless me, for I have, bless me
for I have sought in this world
what is promised, isn’t it? in the next.

Santes Winefride help me split the oak,
I’ve tried to split it with my heart,
sometimes tried to cleave it with my tongue -
didn’t the Holy Spirit descend in a tongue of flame?

- Saint Gwenffrewi, pray for the split oak
which shelters,
the tongue of flame hangs heavy
with strange fruit.

II
Tethered in my crooked arm lies
a cleft stave, this isn’t what I need right now;
my stave, the one I lost - or it lost me -
my stave is T-shaped a hanging bough,

it leans against my heart, alive, waiting
for a man’s arm forbidden, warming;
my cold body shrieks lewd thoughts at the oak, cleft,
waiting, collected for firewood;
a man’s arm rests on my cold shoulder,

beneath the white bandages the scar sleeps
look: can you see?
if I lift my veil, here, feel, feel
the place where my head was cleaved
sweetly, one blow fell - no? too squeamish?
I know, it left me so               cold,
the cleaving, some say my body is only fit for
and my head, see, whore-frosted.

III
Winefride bless me for I,
bless me for I tried
bless me for I tried too hard
not to stop.
I knew what was coming,
tried to split my heart,
Gwenffrewi make me whole.

 

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