Tara May Not Know

that her name, her
yclept
is a placename, a
location name, the
seat of the High Kings
of Ireland
back then when
at the great Battle of Clontarf
Brian Boru was cruelly
all slain and fractured, a
bard wrote this:

“Blood bursts like snowflakes from his nose” and
I never forgot that, in

all my writing hence I
never forgot that, the

tension brilliant twixt the cold, stark white, and
the hot red flow, I
tasted the hot red flow in my mouth with it’s iron
tang, Tara

may not know this, may not
feel the hot
ululation belling from the camp that night, the

hot ululation from the women who worshipped
their High King, their
Brian Boru, their
Kingly host, their
Kingly wonder man, the

West of Ireland was alive that night, alive
with portents and wondrous
things, that
no man fathomed and more, no
wolf howled and more, the
women writhed and screamed and turned hither
and thither in sweat, their
breasts full
for his returning spirit, his
nursing lips, the

women writhed and turned
hither and thither
for Brian, their
need so plangent that their men
stood in a wonder
away from their straw beds and wassailed
instead
with honeyed mead and need
for the younger
women of the tribe, all
was chaos rebuilding into frame, and

Tara does not know this,

Yet!

-30-