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Ann Egan

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Fuamnach’s Rage

That one sickens me,
just the cut of her

floating about my palace.
Colours of the rainbow

are not enough for her,
oh no, she must have

silver ribbons, golden
threads in and out

all through that fabric
that scarcely covers her

till men’s eyes are so
bedazzled they see only

that trollop in her flimsy
frock. I’m green in my gut

when I look at her cloak,
the lie of it across

her high, white shoulders,
the red of setting sun,

pine of spring forest
about its hood, softness

of her hair flowing over.
I loathe her. I have seen

him stroke that hair,
besotted by its glow

of harvest moon, sheen
of heavens in its tresses.

In my presence he rests
his head - my love, my love

how could you with that bitch -
on those breasts, thin straps

just about conceal them.
Lady of Sliabh Callary,

I press my palms into
my shrunken breasts

until their swollen veins
writhe like a pit of vipers

while that slut
wraps her snow limbs

about my onetime man.
My raven hair that mantled

the litheness of him
when we lay together

is now a whorled wheet
of despair that winds me down

to a place of no colours.
No, I won’t slide down there,

I, Fuamnach, wife of Midir
will claw now with my purpled

fangs up the sides of this pit.
My forked tongue shall incant

my gall of many shades and
hiss that harlot to The Morrigan.

 

Page(s) 41-42

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