Peat Bog, acid puddle sponges, lye
somewhere between compost and formaldehyde.
Bone's suckled down like candy, liquefied.
Leather sacks of history, like treasure chests.
Tomb raiders plundering the murky coffers of Esus
find faces, like rubber masks, screaming
as their bones melt in the acid fires of Taranis.
Teuatates would hate us if we forgot his hangings,
men dangling, dancing limbs spasming, as throats
were draining. Where did the blood land, and the toe point?
What does the future hold in its calculated hands?
Skull hole, noose hung, bloated lung.
Precise sacrifice. Three in one,
and we're done for the day.
Carry him away, to the peat bogs,
and the great gods,
of Lindow Moss.