the speckled salmon has leaped
from her shining chamber, leaped
to land on the pebbled shore
by your boot -- and you question?

the quail comes forth from the bush
to give herself in offering --
her sweet meat in the fire of
sacrifice -- and you question?

you have stolen the white cow
who bears the moon on her brow
without raid, without foray
for she bears the broken tether

and if this is an evil
then so is love, and honor
that lames the white mare of joy
in the name of the homestead

and indeed your ears shall be
two ears of shame -- for letting
your hand fall limp and the crown
roll under the hawthorn, hidden

sovereignty presses the cup
to your unworthy lips -- those
lips blood-red turning from
her offering, bled by fear

it is the will of the green
and wide-hipped earth, the river
gleaming under the sun she
stills for nine months for desire --

and swan-winged love himself was
born of Boann's trickery.
so claim your honor, Noisiu!
snatch the mare that comes willing!

and we shall follow the mare's
bright step, whether filled with flame
or blood -- and a wish that she
pressed the cup to us instead

laughing, the green glass
orb catches the ray
of the lamp, throwing
sparks on the walls

"it is your heart," i laugh
and let it dance
on my pink fingers
and off their tips

only to catch it mid-air
for a thief's glimpse
of your heart stopping.
and then the laugh

ripples out from the
stone of my wit and need.
sometimes i let it
brush the carpet

short of shattering --
but its gold glitter
brushes the strands
as i snatch it up.

but here
is what i do not say:

that the glass globe
is not your heart
snatched by my child hands --
and this is no game.

no. it is you
who hold my heart
in your unlovely palms
to hold or hurl

free or freeze
hang on the pine bough
or crush to a cloud
of sharpened dust

and it is my lips
that part to gasp
although my teeth give no word
and my eyes build the fortress

 

you stand on the white strand by your love, not noticing the spray soaking your cloak, the foam lapping your feet, the call of your companions, the cry of your hounds. you do not notice the gull wheeling white above you, the high proud heads of the cliffs.

for there is nothing but the hidden sun on her hair. her white feet, high-arched. her eyes first gray, then green, catching all the sea-colors in them, the gift of her father and mother, the wavewalkers of the boundary. her pale hand reaches out, its fingers rose-tipped.

your companions grab you back, grab your shoulder with their spear-roughened hands. they know who she is, and whisper her name, her line. you catch nothing of it. her name, to you, is the cry of the wheeling gull, the roar of the sea, the timbrel of your heart beating. her line is the smooth line of her hand reaching to you.

in the moment you take it, you know what is to be. you know: the three hundred years of joy, slowly edging to grief as the sun does toward its setting. the horse with its silver bridle, and the stumble that costs you it all. grave mounds gone green, and the old, old man, crumbling to dust on the loam.

but her hand is warm and she smiles, light dancing on wavelets. the calls and cries fade behind you.

you know what is to be, and you melt in its embrace.

woman of fire, you will be
the brand that torches the sere
edge of last season's harvest
and sets the corn alight
before it heaps into ash

the ray of white you will be
caressing the womb tomb of
Brugh Na Boinne on the dawn
when winter lays down its
cloak of white and feathered night

Boann's daughter you will be
with eyes of gray-green water
over the white fall of your
face -- the eye that sees the well
of Segais in its rising

and it tumbles, roaring down
tearing down the nine hazels
of the wise, the very fish
that eat them drowned in fury
and loss, river of longing

the caged doe you will be
hooded falcon of the arm
the red drip under talons
a shred of heart in your beak
the jesses snapped and thrown

song-woman, your breath shall spark
a blaze of verse, burning woods
of song -- a cast of your hair
shall make exiles of men
and fools of scholars and kings

unreachable star, yawning
tomb-mouth, black-feathered Nemhain
on the red field of Ulster
a white step that shall leave
not springtime but bare bone

to see you, men will give
one eye -- then pawn the other
to stand again with their face
in your sun, swords fallen
to an earth of rust and rot

the white plain --
an unseen hand
smooths its lines
but not its winters.
a scent lingers
salty
tones with fresh earth
spring mud
the sweat on his belly
the sandalwood
on the high arch
of her feet

and now.
a white crescent
curls into a cat
in the imprint of her back

open palms
offer alms to the full moon
soft lips their prayers
to an afternoon
of absence