Process
Before it was Excalibur , it was steel . A lump of the stuff , sitting erect at my anvil . When I huffed at it , bubbles fizzed from my lips .
From the time my palace was saffron sheen sunlit Until it was murky and death-deep black , For nine long years I worked on that sword .
Phallic , you ’ d go on to call it , for all my toil . The shaping was the worst : Endless bellows from the swift black hammer , like an infant ’ s mourning at daybreak , Excalibur swelled within the steel stubbornly . Then at nightfall I ’ d chant until finally , terribly , my hands would glow and sizzle against the water . ( We don ’ t have forges underwater .) In I ’ d go , a surgeon , burning it out from the silvery womb . My hands became ash-white and never coloured again .
Each garnet , jacinth and ruby was my own , Plucked from the necklace at my breast . My stoker of a finger-pad pricked at the wild for my red jewels , ( They don ’ t tell you that it was dappled with blood-spots before Arthur got his hands on it .)
Sea-swift lullabies in litany I sang night after night . We were Thetis and Achilles , Excalibur and I . And though my lake became inky and moaned with unknown voices , Excalibur shone , My mighty scarlet comet .
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