Stink
Clare is just a green line on the mainland.
Dún Aonghasa in August, and the breeze
coming off the sea eats our words.
(The smell is salt, fish, a whiff of incest).
We cannot hear ourselves. Our dialects mingle.
The fortress faces out towards the west.
The sea hums in towards it, yellow, grey.
We speak but the wind takes our voices.
Our picnic lies in disarray around us.
And Clare is just a green line on the mainland.
There is a line that should never be crossed.
Che vista! Che isolamento! Gli irlandesi -
Some blame religion, monogamy, evolution.
But here walks Brigid out from a rock,
a sod of magic butter in her hand,
followed by a line of feral cows.
Her lips are moving. Deep cattle groans
drown her out. We barely catch her growl-
Mitrocaireach, crualach, SELFISH!
She spits, draws a line across the turf.
Mitrocaireach = pitiless
Crualach = cruel
