poem: sex ed. from camelot

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

from college,

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.

 

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