Although the acres of my arms open before her,
she comes not when she is called,
but only where she may.
Held back by her locked sinews
strapped to the rigidity of pain.
I caught her in a photo,
the light made her seem cold.
And with her saber gaze, she cuts the glaze.
Yet this is the only her
I hold.
Here I am
at the edge of us,
looking at the river that gushes from the cut.
Here I am,
again for the first time
watch as I walk
taking each tread
delicate as red leaves
that scatter out a deathbed
for skeletal trees.
Carrying my grandmother on my back
to the river.
The cold snap plucks my resolve
fletches my quiver.
Here I am,
I let her down
into the waters
bone by bone
some of her the river carries further than
my bullish back and brazen guile ever could.
I hold the bones to bring her home and watch the water kiss my wrists
Cleanse the scabs from the briars’ bit
that bound me to you,
but failed to hold me down
in fever fits.
From grandma’s bones I make a crown, a ring and comb
I string a fiddle with her hair
I make my throne her rocking chair.
I do not leave her in the ground, unseen, unsung
her flesh bitter dust, her teeth tocking at the stones
her hair to dress a badgers den
I bring her pain
her grudges and disdain and turn them into
beauty
and passion
I make from her the things
that she could never reach.
She becomes the empress within me,
the one, with arms unbound
stretched out to greet the dawn.
Cruel nature, why do you inconvenience me,
with the stripes on the tarmac interrupted horizontally
by the lame death of the dark dog striped white from snout to crown
Another casualty to edge around.
For it is impermissibly crucial to keep clear
the crux of the crucible,
there is not room for blossom or bees.
And how the dim glow through fumes is blocked by these insufferable trees,
three generations gathered conkers from,
soon they scatter not even a legacy of red leaves
But the scar on the pavement
Cookie cut
a new patch of weeds.
It’s said we came book bound to cultivate the unholy earth
trim the hedgerows, keep the garden clear of crows.
Keep the skyline hardnosed, snagging smog on balconies hung with grey worn washing and the rebel songs from wars not won.
Marked only as wars by casualty.
This is the black smoke on which we rose
Strapped to a cross of industry
On desecrated pitches the men come to split the hares, pick the battles
spill blood and consecrate each squeal slitting the gullet of the swine,
‘Tisn’t cruelty, tis only cattle. Sure death will get us all in time?’
Aye suffering, that saintly maturity with which we dole out pain,
Bear our jaws on the bones of all that gets in our way.
Deontological to the profane, as we strip
And rip, slit and maul
and our eyes grow dimmer
so the red on our hands no longer appalls
This is God’s work. We are Gods work.
Or so they say.
It is only right.
The world is meant to be this way.
Sionnachaí 