I’m tired of being a symbol. I quit!
I’m trapped in the Book of Kells
as your immortal peacock,
but without offspring.
Which brings me to my plaint–
Where are the pea-hens?
My loud and wailing cries
are silenced.
Here we peacocks preen
for no one.
The scribes colored us in
for fun,
no pea-hens observing.
The lion of Mark
with huge, sharp teeth,
calls out for the lioness.
The incredulous eye of the eagle of John
lands on no mate.
The calf of Luke
does not know his singular fate,
which is to be sacrificed.
I’m in this all-male club
of haloed writers
glorifying Chi Rho.
Here is room for only one Lady,
our Queen.
You would think we’d see
the woman at the well,
the one anointing His feet,
the one who touched His cloak,
and the Magdalene.
I’ve inventoried all the other females
on these sheets of vellum:
one she-goat ;
two hens.
At least two-by-two Noah
had the right idea
for us birds and beasts.
In these Gospels
we’re just supporting cast–
stag and snake,
wolf, and hares,
cats and mice.
Swirling in the perfect geometry
of circles within circles,
only three nameless women,
stretch out,
marginalized.
Magdalene, excluded, deserves
a larger future
than patroness
of laundries.
Devoted to Him like her,
I flank Him
with Eucharistic host
in profile
on my green wing.
My eight fellow peacocks
writhe without hens.
Who am I to question
the designs of the monks?
