“I was sick for a bloodletting / for her to split my flesh from swollen slit
offer herself / as if she were a warm holiness / to be swallowed.”
Effy Winters poetry is both erotic and holy. It reaches into your sexual core and brings out something sacred. She has a way of making the body into a temple, something seemingly untouchable yet defiled. The formatting utilized in her work assists in its shocking impact, reading like holy script. Her language is biblical and poetic even when its confrontational, it has a flow. Explicit words are situated between lyrical descriptions, making for an addicting read. Her work brings to mind the likes of Sappho, Pablo Neruda, Aurora Linnea, and Lenore Kandel, but with an even sicker twist. There is the feeling of a devil sitting and watching as you read, luring you in with its tempestuous debauchery. It is overwhelming work, as it comes like an unexpected storm, and without warning empties into you all of its confessions. I imagine this work crafted in the waiting room of limbo, a small space between heaven and hell. It is obvious she has experienced both, and has a way of describing it with such sentimental familiarity of the body form. It is important to mention some of these pieces could be combined to tell a fuller flushed story, but in their short passage they remain all the more shocking. The reoccurring themes in this work are of God; the Devil, Sex, Witchcraft, and Menstruation. It is a declaration of the Divine Feminine, work that only a female could produce.
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