The Ancestress Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Her hair’s electric, a shock of power
Like sun rays wide in a woodcut

In the family furniture, she goes against the grain
Her womb has vanished into the mist of a cold region

In the weather forecast of time, she’s spring in Winter
Cailleach and the Maiden merged in one

This is one broth of a girl, a long-nailed fury
Whore and nun enmeshed. She rises over cities like a cloud
Her tale is the umbilical I dangle from

She is peach blossom, moon, and rainbow
I think I heard her whisper in my cradle
Strange words from ancient birthings, solemn keenings

This ancestress could never have been swaddled
She’d kick over the traces, give you a run for your money
She wears a belt of skulls, and strokes them, tenderly.