Abortion Games: The Lady Priest

She stands alone, her hair unveiled for God,

a cup held high as if to offer laud.

And with her lips she whispers words most holy;

she takes the bread and says, “This is my body.”

Then from the cup she takes a drink of water,

her spirit hot to channel God as Daughter.

“O holy, holy, holy, Lord Most High,”

she sings, but in her heart knows it’s a lie.

A voice came from behind, with honeyed tones:

“Why do you speak as if your god were bones?”

In fear she spills the golden cup she holds,

then spins around, three women to behold.

One dressed in black, pearls dangling from her wrist,

her red mouth pursed as if she had been kissed.

One dumpling fat, with floury arms and cheeks,

the other gaunt, as if she’d starved for weeks.

“Angel, dear, we come here with an offer:

something to help fill your church’s coffer.

A little thing, we hope you won’t refuse,

a sister whom we gave the right to choose.

She’s one with us, but now she’s split in two;

we long to guide her on a path that’s true.

Your presence at our altar we request

to give our daughter her much-needed rest.”

The women smiled and gestured towards the door,

where light streamed in and filtered cross the floor.

A fourth stood there, her head bowed to the ground,

her face in shadow and her belly round.

“Our sister needs a priest to help her grieve

the life she inadvertently conceived.

A clump of cells was all, a chance mistake,

but now she writhes as if upon a stake.”

The second woman took the floor, and said:

“It’s by your priestly gifts she needs be fed.

We three alone lack skills to bless her heart,

to bind and loose the sinews of her chart.

We need your gift for seeing inside souls,

to shield our sister from the lies of trolls.

A drop of blood, a robin’s feast, a crumb

is all we need to help her not succumb.”

The third chimed in as if to echo her,

while in her folded arms a fat cat purred.

“We saw you on that video you did!

You danced and sang just like a little kid!

Bring that rainbow stole you wore on TikTok;

we know already that your mind’s unlocked.

Don’t worry about the text, we’ve got the books.

All that we care about is how it looks.”

As pleased as punch, the priestess beamed, and burst:

“I’d love to help you, let me get my purse.”

The women whisked her out the door as one,

anxious not to let the meter overrun.

A blur of lights, a swerve, a bump, a bridge;

the car drew up outside a bristling hedge.

“Mind your step, it’s not far now, watch your head.”

A sign said, “Alchemist,” picked out in red.

Was it a cave, a shop, a cathedral?

A curtain parted, and she heard a bell.

Rich leather bindings glinted in the light;

the lady priestess gasped in sheer delight.

A crystal bowl, a golden cat, some coins,

a mask that sent a shiver through her loins.

A pyramid in rainbow hues crowned all,

its power greater than the rule of law.

A cloud of spices, myrrh and frankincense

filled the room with Solomon’s remembrance.

A chant rang out: “Be cleansed, be healed, be changed.

No more from your true self now be estranged.”

“It’s just through here, our ritual space,” one said.

“Take off your shoes, and let yourself be led.”

A friendly ring of bells welcomed her through

a curtain picked out in four ancient hues.

She kissed her stole and crossed herself in time

as three before her passed into the shrine.

Candles glinted round the room, reflected

in silvered crystals—their dark light perfected.

A table of stone loomed out of the dark.

What was that noise? Could it be a dog’s bark?

Thirteen people masked and cloaked stood silent,

coiling round the altar like a serpent.

A still small voice rose from beneath the stone:

“My body is mine; it’s my choice alone

to live inviolate, virgin and pure,

guided by science, my reason secure.

It is my right to live free and in truth,

proudly affirming my eternal youth.

Let the blood that I shed here be a sign:

my body, my will, my right, it is mine.”

The priestess looked down, a gleam in her eye

wondering how she was meant to reply.

A woman was there, wearing naught but skin,

lying in liquid right up to her shins.

It splashed as she moved—dark, viscous, and red;

drops from the splashes anointed her head.

An animal chrism spoke to her nose

of sacrifice bloody and sacred woes.

As one, the company took up the lyre:

“O Powers of Earth, Sky, Ocean and Fire!

Uncreated, we sing your majesty,

affirming our trust in science almighty.

From out of the womb we take our liberty,

never to sacrifice self for progeny.

‘Legal and medically-safe’ is our creed,

no one’s birthright can now challenge our need.”

One voice leapt over the herd with swift grace,

two curling horns above a pointed face:

“Come, eat and drink with me, my darling girl!

Fear not the Lion or the ugly churl.

Stay slim, no need to worry now you’ve purged;

I promise it’s not as bad as you’ve heard.”

She gave a quick shake to her head and turned,

wanting to check that the others were warned.

The next voice was lower, an owl-like hoot:

“It’s legal—trust me, the argument’s moot.

I’ve read all the studies; I’ll cite them now.

Nobody blames you; it wasn’t a cow.

Only a sadist would make you give birth

when everyone knows it’s less than you’re worth.”

She ruffled her gown, some feathers fell out;

no fetus could usurp her legal clout.

The third voice was sweeter, cuddly at first:

“I’m so happy you’re here, wholly immersed.

I have been watching you, praying you’d come;

nobody loves you as much as this one.

I can take care of you—here, let me see;

with that new hairstyle, you look just like me!”

She gave a great roar of predator love,

vowing to save her from Godself above.

The three gathered round the rich, bloody font,

adjusting their masks for their sacred romp.

“We sisters three sing a woman made new,

fresh from her baptism like holy dew.

Now sing with us, spirits, we beg you, come!

Enter our sister! With us become one!

We’ve offered you candy, cakes, and sweatmeats!

Shower us now with your bounteous feast!”

The Gazelle called for Pride, Freedom, and Strength,

her footsteps like hoofbeats, pointed and fleet.

The Owl called for Safety, Diplomacy, Law,

her beak filled with mice that she’d eaten raw.

The Cat called for Thrones, Dominions, Powers,

bright guardians of the surgical hours.

They danced round the bathtub filled with dark blood,

reveling in the Dionysian mood.

The girl in the blood bath started to moan:

“Something’s inside me, I want to go home!

This is not me, I’m a woman, not flesh.”

“That’s just the world talking, hush and drink this.”

The sweetness engulfed her as reason fled,

a pleasure machine, just like de Sade said:

“We are but robots, mechanical f*cks,

the root of all evil—now give me suck!”

“That baby you carried—it was not real,

only a way to make philosophes feel.

Your womb is your own to use as you will;

fill it with gemstones—or somebody’s swill.

Look at these photos of what you could be:

a doctor, a lawyer, a PhD.

Rachel weeps for her children who were not,

but you need not dip from that ancient pot.”

The dancers made lines and jumped to the Left,

thrusting their groins with transsexual heft.

“We don’t need babies, we’ll make men in vats!

Much more important to dance now in spats!”

“Time has no meaning, there’s no consequence

to f*cking then sucking then making pence.”

“Look at our high heels, our make-up, and wigs!

To hear the Right talk, you’d think we were pigs!”

They turned on a dime and stepped to the Right,

licking their lips at the thought of a fight.

“We’ll go to Washington, make it a law;

women in power are what we need now.”

“Every religion deserves to be free;

they’re all just the same, between you and me.”

“Families are families, moms, dads, and kids,

it’s not like it matters when they’re on the skids.”

The company stomped, stamped, simpered, and whirled,

around and around the bathtub-cum-girl,

when out of the blue came a man in green—

or was he a demon? Where had he been?

One shouted with glee: “Hail, Lord of us all!

We fall down before you in sacred thrall!

Loyalty! Loyalty! Loyalty! We

pledge to your service our bodies’ levy!”

His face was a hawk’s, his feathers bright green;

his corset hot pink—a flamingo queen.

Diamonds and rubies encircled his neck;

shiny black boots made the boys and girls wet.

His breath came from grapes—red, white, and rose;

his beard sparkled with drops of finest champagne.

A feather boa he twined round his shoulders,

his tattoos—monstrous, his testicles boulders.

The priestess stood trembling with anticipation,

longing to bow, but still hesitating.

Could she approach? Should she submit?

The dancers collapsed in a Bacchic fit.

The green man surveyed them with hooded eyes,

then licked his lips and asked: “Where is my prize?”

“Here, lord, she’s ripe to be taken to wife,

no more pursued by mere water of life.”

“I’ve got the ink here!” “I’ve got the right pen!”

The Owl, Cat, and Gazelle cackled like hens.

The hawk-man thrust out a claw and took the scroll,

noted the terms for acquiring a soul:

“Sign on the dotted lines here, here, and here.

Just pay the piper, and you’ll have great cheer.”

The girl took the charter, wrote out her name.

What was a soul worth when life offered fame?

“Hey, you! Priest Lady! Stop drinking God’s blood!

You can’t just stand there, cow-like chewing cud!”

The priestess started, as if in a trance.

She hadn’t remembered joining the dance.

“Here, take this stack of books—it’s your turn now!

We need your help in undoing a vow.

Bell, book, and candle, a demon or two.

One incantation is all you need do.”

One gave her a bowl inscribed with new spells;

another poured wine, added spices pell-mell.

A third burned the charter inscribed with blood,

then mixed in the ashes, enriching the mud.

“Drink up, and curse the Lord and His Mother—

you know you want to! Now serve another!

She’s a whore, not a queen; boil her in shit!

As soon as you drink, you’ll know you are it!”

The priestess swayed, overcome with the thirst

to join the Inner Ring, to be the first.

No more Jerusalem—Babel’s she’d be,

filled with the power of elec-tricity!

She’d speak in tongues, she’d know secrets galore,

once the dark liquid filled her to the core.

Lifting the spell-bowl she took a long draught,

then smacked her lips as she started to laugh.

“I see the throne; it is here in my grasp!

No more to grovel because of an asp!

I bow to no one; I rule humankind!

But...what is happening?! I’m going blind!”

Panicked and dumb, she fell into the bath.

The witches three cackled—they had their calf!

But those who could still hear, heard a sweet voice:

“O my dear children, I gave you the choice!”

“The Constitution does not confer a right to abortion.”

— Supreme Court of the United States, Dobbs v Jackson, June 24, A.D. 2022

Follow the adventures of the Green Knight as he exposes Fama’s lies in Centrism Games!

Special e-book sale in honor of the Supreme Court’s ruling in Dobbs v Jackson: $0.99

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Image credits: Top: Baby in God’s Hands, Senator Doug Mastriano’s Facebook profile, June 25, 2022. Bottom: Hans Memling, Chalice of St. John the Evangelist (c. 1470), National Gallery of Art

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