Pooka paces to and fro as furious
finger lift and tug an ebony mane,
tossing the crackling ruby eyes that
warm two small shivering bodies
a hill and a moor towards town.
Deirfiur mhor, deirfiur og.
They no longer fight for the honour
of serving the whiskey;
graduated to higher circles with
uncles, neighbours, cousins
the dancing goes on, wild faerie revels of reels
strains of longing in the night.
The flame bites her back but
she doesn’t drop her fiddle, no, nor flush
with her sister’s tears as
Pa says, “Martin, a leanbh, mo ghra,
my comortas champion, you make me so proud.”
Deirfiur mhor, deirfiur og.
The yellow butter fat, raspberry
jam a river of urine and blood through
hillocks of raisins, glistens the reflection
of soda bread against her tin pail.
Sister Mary Katherine tells her that she dances
too much, that prayer calluses
replace fiddle scores-
She tears the hills apart as
her sister leaves for Cill Airne.
Deirfiur mhor, deirfiur og.
Yet, ‘tis now that tears trace
rending rivulets from crows- feet eyes
to pebbles teeth, as wrinkles whittled
by memory map
the way to Ben Bulben.
Her calluses have deepened
harsh lines of carved, sculpted
years of bowing her sister’s fiddle-
a claddagh ring trapped forever
in swollen whorls.
Mo chuisle mo chroi
Her whorls are sketched upon my
knuckles, slowly bulging
with the wail of the bean sidhe
through our reel.
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बेतरतीबPoems about my life...and other random shite. Enjoy!