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.