Poetry by Ceallaigh S. MacCath-Moran
“Hel’s Lambs”
St. Helen’s Meat Packers, February 21, 2020
By Ceallaigh S. MacCath-Moran
They are no longer with us;
soft ears turned toward the slaughterhouse,
wide eyes fixed upon my camera,
and the trust, that awful trust -
in a man who called them meat.
Sunday brunch in a week.
Will they arrive, Lady Hel,
by the meadow, to your hall, under the world?
Will they be frightened and in need -
of familiar...Ah, but I forget.
They have only ever seen a feeding lot.
Shearling mittens in a month.
Give them unfamiliar comforts then;
a whisper of their names in the hiss -
of a captive bolt, a cold, red peace,
and a night of blessed sleep that never ends.
These are in your power to grant, I pray.
Blood meal for bright blossoms in the spring.
Lady Hel, if they have souls -
(and if they do not, divide mine among them)
that come to the gates of Helheim, begging for kindness,
tell them I was there, that I bore witness.
Say that I will speak of their passing -
in summer flower gardens,
to warm-handed strangers,
at Easter dinner tables.
Know that I will never stop.
“Water”
Fearman’s Pork, March 4, 2020
By By Ceallaigh S. MacCath-Moran
First sacrament of embodiment,
fetal cushion in the womb, bottled in plastic,
a last rite poured between the slats of a transport truck.
Twenty minutes of ministry -
in two-minute bursts to bacon, mmm...bacon,
from the “stupidest fucking people” you've ever seen.
Frozen to the trailer; ears and cheeks -
and backs and bellies, almost bacon already;
those witless things on the road for two days in March.
The tractor idles, and a nurse -
chants a mantra over the bottle she holds -
to the mouth of a thirsty pig with a punctured eye,
who turns toward my voice when I lie -
“Good Morning,” low and slow, a counterfeit calm -
that helps him settle, see the gift of water, and drink.
Time splits, his and ours, at the end.
We back away. He travels on, placid now,
past the fence, toward another pair of human hands.
He will not die because of us,
but for a moment, we were his ministers,
and we offered what little sacrament we could.
- Dr. Ceallaigh S. MacCath-Moran holds a B.A. in Celtic Studies, an M.A. in English and Creative Writing, and a PhD in Folklore. Work from her two fiction and poetry collections has been shortlisted for the Washington Science Fiction Association Small Press Award, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and nominated for the Rhysling Award. Recently, her podcast radio drama “The Belt and the Necklace” was produced by the Odyssey Theatre in Ottawa. She’s a member of the American Folklore Society, the International Society for Folk Narrative Research, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association, and many other professional societies for folklore scholars and authors. You can find her online at csmaccath.com, folkloreandfiction.com, and linktr.ee/csmaccath.