The Oaten Bride Viii Poem by David McLansky

She lays upon the grinding stone
Her hair untied, arrayed, and combed;
The dew bejewels her maiden hair
As flames lick at the black night air.

She lays upon an oaten mat
Her limbs outstretched and laying flat;
Her wrists and legs are tightly bound
By thick stalk ropes staked to the ground;

Chosen for her maiden beauty,
Her purity, her vow of duty,
She reigned as Queen from Evesong Tide,
The slated, feted Oaten Bride;

What bride upon her wedding night
Lays so secure with heart so light;
What pride blooms there upon her cheek;
Her eyes grow wide she cannot speak.

The moon does summon as a bell;
The Ancient Stalk does rise and swell;
The Groom descends to claim his prize:
The Barren Earth is fertilized;