Sir Gawain's Granddaughter

Sir Gawain's Granddaughter rides the mid-morning virginity on a horse with golden hooves.

Her subtlety never touches the ground;
and though her veils are ugly
her face is not lost among them.

She says love is a depth
like a river. A nightingale.
The chaste kiss she spreads across her lover
with solidly-invisible lips.

Her eyelids puddle, and
she has a way of cluttering the situation -

and so, Sir Gawain (fat and balding
on a battlefield that is more dust then green now)
sees not as she prances

a Celtic knot across her female teeth
she dances.

A phase, young knights pray to outgrow.
The reaping swollen fold, she sews seeds across a field where nothing grows.

Sir Gawain's Granddaughter is motherless,
though her pre-dated Catholic is well schooled
in peremptory contradiction.
She refuses you any and all reasoning
beyond the silhouetted mask she frequently retreats to.

And when you dream you reach out to her, but
she immerges in your mind like vapor,
leaving the aftertaste of salt on your fingers.

She will be old and dead before she's twenty;
lost, in a belief that is braking the stone relief's which have
stood (frozen in granite) for centuries.

She closes her eyes to Galahads sharp teeth -
Arthur's sword as it pierces her,
Lancelot's greed,
and Tristan's anger

and upon waking she crosses herself; laments,
tries to forget the shape of her bones,
an embodiment of the fleshy part of a lie,
knavish and spiteful.

Sir Gawain's Granddaughter rides the mid-morning virginity on a horse with golden hooves.

She takes a lover to please the Mother.
She takes chastity to please the Father.