Born of fire, imagination, and myth,
cobalt and coal encased in flannel
harkening older cloth and culture,
ancestral memory spirals in my mind
Cináed at Lia Fáil, sweet duet;
his cry, mingled with screaming of stone;
before even that threshold, he was my king;
ancient king of the heart, animus
Riogh Cináed, raven hair’d and sky-eyed;
silent speaking of mastery and mindfulness
from mythical Tara, through centuries, upon a horse called dream,
he crashes the keep and sets sweet ruin to me
They never speak of his wife, though surely he had one;
at least one son is known to have received legacy;
it matters not; dusty history is nothing when
symbols and sigils carry truth in the night
Named and yet nameless, I know him unknowningly;
never a blue-eyed, dark-haired man passed that
my eye did not follow; everywhere and nowhere at all,
the man who does not exist, all around me
The memes and themes entwine, pulse, and unite;
spatters upon the page, silk upon skin, wine on lips,
melting sacrament to eager, seeking tongue;
intellectually sated… physically bereft
A king, a farmer, a silent, strong partner;
his words are peace and perfection
his hands shape worlds within my mind
so much more terribly tender for being untouchable
Aches of ages,
nestled
between hips and lips,
cradled,
Cináed.