Adele Evershed
A Fib About A Dead White Christ

born
from
the mouth
of a cave
scrapings substitute
for all the voices of women
the long-necked invented things but always hooded men
smothered them in used sheets so later peeling off the layers felt like an abortion
with deep breaths, blood and ancient things declared sacrosanct by the ones that never grew them
you forced us to look as a mother and child lay down
crying loudly from after pains
ripped into untruths
by artists
daubing
in
white