On the West Irish coast
Ocean, cold, farmers’ suicides
Enter as spirits the grudging blood
In its system ticking forward
To no purpose or landing
That she can see.
Unless – the girl in the crone’s cast skin
- she dreams of happiness,
of honey on good cottage bread
or the first can in the pub.
Never the thick tongue in her ear,
Never the man’s flanking motion
His barnyard antics.
Which they called love
In the pig ignorance and trickery of back then.
Unless the ocean, the cold,
The self inflicted escapees
Gives you, in the clearing morning
A sum, a summoning, salt sufficient
In the headland gusts.
- Karen Chamisso
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