Cashel, Ireland, 2,000 B.C.
In ancient Ireland, bogs were sacred
areas; a cool wetland mirage meters
deep of peat during demoralizing
drought. Greenish-brown landscape
of mystery, insufferably slow plant
growth. What must a farmer have
thought as his wife offered a vessel
of golden butter to appease a merciless
deity? He plunges his hand deep into
the bog, brings a handful of drenched
soil to his eyes, squeezes and watches
as his hairy forearms stain a deep rust.
At home, he listens to the tink tink
of his wife’s dull bronze bracelets
against her wan wrists. He thinks
about the young King’s wife in all
her finery. Would this Queen of hope
sacrifice her coveted amulets to bring
good rain? No, he turns his attention
to the King’s body; of average height,
imperially slim, easy to force him back
to the russet hill of his kingship initiation,
bludgeon him, revel in his failure to defend
himself, break at least two limbs, watch
him writhe, listen as he squeaks for help,
twist his limp, clothed body into the fetal
position, cradle his offering with bloodied,
bruised hands, trusting this delicate flesh
will nourish the goddess’s appetite.
