When I was younger, I spent some
ten or so breathless hours lying on an unmade
bed, grey sky clamped above me:
I was reading one of my mother’s books
those years when she went through her pagan stage
and believed in abortion
and Earth Mothers. The legacy of that is kept
on the bookshelves, and in the thousand-page tome
of King Authur,
written as a bit of a pussy, even
with the broadsword and the chivalry and all.
He is running naked
through the forest with his half-sister
Morgana, who was portrayed less like an enchantress
and more like the outcast girl in highschool,
who is smart and bitter but not blonde
enough to cheerlead with Gwenhwyfar.
I probably would have liked Morgana more if I read the book
later. But the only thing I cared about
at the time
(and I was maybe ten)
was the good rigorous pagan sex Arthur had
with his half-sister.