A NOTE TO CÚ CHULAINN

Oh, Hound of Cullen, 

I always wanted to ask you,

who did your hair? I mean 

with all those electrified locks 

standing upright like needles in rainbow hues,

capable of striking your enemies dead,

would be tricky to lime into dreadlocks.

And your superhuman strength—beyond imagining, 

with your seven fingers on each hand,

and seven toes on each foot, 

did they need special shoes, pampooties,

and which little piggies went to market? 

And what about those seven-pupiled eyes 

that could see beyond the curtain of time, 

unshielded by the glamor of Ray Bans,

did they help you to win your battles? 

What was the fabric of your dreams made of?

You, who were born of Lugh, the god of sun & light.

Sétanta, may I call you by your given name,

instead of your battlefield handle, Cú Chulainn, 

O Hound of War, for you turned your body inside out 

to scare the enemy, and your trusty grey horse & chariot 

were always at the ready, ready to die for you.

And you with your gáe bolga, a superpower weapon

unleashed against the backdrop of the Bronze Age, 

reimagined by monks during the Middle Ages, 

would wait another millennium before it was made real, 

a grenade for the ages. I am come. Destroyer of worlds.

But you broke your geis, because you could not refuse 

the hospitality of the hag, offering you the taboo 

of roasted dog, eating your namesake, 

or refuse hospitality, the cursed twofold dilemma, 

O Hound of Cullen, how you must’ve howled in rage 

by that base trickery, the lón láith, the long light 

shining from your brow, and you came undone, 

your superpowers bleeding back into the earth.

And to think of how you exploded onto the scene, 

upholding the honor of the world as you knew it, 

a world in turmoil, and how you died upright, lashed 

to a standing stone so you would not fall in battle,

the Mórrighan and her scaldcrows on the battlefield,

waiting to pluck out those marvelous eyes,

while we hid beneath our school desks, 

with our arms shielding our eyes, protecting 

our slender necks from the unholy light,

waiting for the bomb to drop. No magic cloak 

of forgetfulness to hide our fear.

11/23/22 Write On! Terri Glass