CU CHULAIND'S JEALOUS WIFE

Beside an unproductive cranberry bog
he camps out for a season or two,
a defector from wars we do not know
dressed in the tatters of his own defeat.

In fall, when the boys sneak down
to the crimson marsh to smoke a joint,
he comes out of his shack, a small fire
dangling from his mouth. And sipping his
final comfort, he discourses on love.

As always, it’s about Cu Chulaind:
Did you know, he begins,
his voice a dark seduction, the chieftain
loved his wife Emer so much
he captured the brightest birds
and brought them to her room.
Until the day when beautiful Fand
poured the drink of pure forgetting.

The drink of pure forgetting! Cu Chulaind
roars and weeps,
as the boys, who cannot understand--not yet,
drop their joints and run
from fervid eyes, and quaking voice,
from Fand’s inviting thighs.

Alone once more, he swallows another fated pint,
as he haunts the dysfuntional bog,
filling its murky waters with a thousand years of travel,
a thousand nights of weak lament.

How long, Cu Chulaind? he wails.
How long; how far; how deep?
How many years must he drink down,
how many countries travel
before the birds are all set free?