Brigid had two sisters, Brigid and Brigid:
Poet, Healer, Smith, the three strolled arm-in-arm
through fields and town, and yes, we loved them all,
but Brigid the Poet suited me best. 
I followed her, always a few steps behind, 
dragging my own laughing sister to festivals, feasts,
agonizing over a poem for weeks, then carrying it engraved on my heart
so I might recite by the fire near her, while she nodded,
her eyes soft and dreamy or sharp and shrewd by turns,
following every phrase, every turn, every leap of my verse,
emotions flickering over her face by firelight. I longed to catch
her hand, press it to my lips, breathe in the pure poetry of her fragrance,
of wildflowers and birds, bees and butterflies;
kiss and cuddle close till morning, drinking deep the depth of her, the life of her,
cold water, crushed rose petals, a soul thirsty for art’s beauty,
two souls drawn close in the dark. She had such suitors,
strong men, heroes, deft of sword and word, whose poetry boldly claimed 
her spirit as their personal muse. How could I compete, a girl schooled in country things,
who learned to write poetry and draw pictures at her grandpa’s knee,
who spent days milking, carding wool, and making cheese?
When Brigid’s pensive face passing in the lanes reminded me
she too had lost those she loved, I drew her my memories, my hopes, my dreams,
sealed them in a tube with wax courtesy of my bees, a poem scribed for each.
These were the heady days of youth, when my mind flitted to dreams of her
as easily as poems, shifting between two patterns — her face, the verse I made in my head —
like weaving at the loom. Like the song I sang there, 
made up on the spot to keep my rhythm.
Brigid didn’t answer direct, but she didn’t seem to mind. 
She took to tipping her chin toward me
with a little smile when we passed each other in the lanes. 
Once I brought her a sky-blue butterfly wing I’d found. 
Once I passed crying, and she touched my cheek.
I thought I’d melt on the spot. We didn’t speak 
much, but I kept an eye out and so did she.
We passed in the lanes more often — village-side 
and countryside, where the crop-rows and trees formed a path 
as private as cobblestone alleys. Over flowering hedges,
we pressed notes in each other’s hands, little squares of poetry edged in red
to indicate sacred verse, in case we were caught, in case any wondered
why one girl addressed another in the hyperbole of the marriage bed.
Once, once only, we kissed beside a stream, 
passionate, longing — Good luck and Goodbye.
She got married the next day. Goddesses, it seems, 
may have even fewer choices than mortals,
Though it didn’t feel that way every time I passed her now, 
meeting by the village well, where she,
Smiling, happy with husband (and, soon enough, with son), 
shared sunny-day kisses with her man out in the street,
while I watched from the shadows, unhappy, my heart dipped in the chill well water
brought up from the depths with a creaking wheel as rhythmic as my work songs;
while I sang a melancholy tune I made up on the spot,
and watched her and watched her and watched her
until she turned to look at me once more.
Brigid the Poet, Brigid the Wise. 
Her sisters of smithy and sickbed seldom visit now,
their growing families robust, full of laughter, 
if village tales can be believed: but my poet grows more pensive,
red hair still wild, but eyes on the ground — or the flowers blooming there —
lifting them only at poetry festivals, competitions.
I win each bardic challenge for the chance to stand up tall and face her
as she hands out the prize she sponsored: waiting, waiting, heart in my mouth,
for that little quirk of a smile she brings out just for me —
that depth of recognition in her eyes.

[Adele Gardner (they/them, Mx.) is a fiction writer & award-winning poet with a poetry collection, Halloween Hearts, from Jackanapes Press and over 475 stories, poems, art, and articles in Analog, Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, PodCastle, Daily Science Fiction, and more. Gardner is a pro member of SFWA and HWA and a graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop.]