My First Ireland

Standing on

the western edge,

walled with rock and green,

the ocean silver patched,

bleeds into

a rain-swelled sky.

Across a blurred sea

there’s Boston.

Ancestors, traveled there

sailing on hope,

knobbed bones,

washboard ribs

steerage passengers

stacked like cordwood,

coffin berths.

Are we not all made of

sinew? Tissue?

Down-covered swells

of sweet tasting flesh?

And yet,

the stench of rotting fields.

An ocean filled with fish,

“our own” forbidden

from casting a net.

Ships packed with export,

but a shilling

for a starving man

to build a needless wall.

Standing in this place,

I think about bellies.

Cold caves of want.

Families. Boys, girls,

babes gone before speech,

a father

faced with non-choice, 

eviction or

“assisted” immigration.

And so, my ancestors,

maybe yours,

crawled onto a boat,

departed desperation,

staggered to a foreign place,

made of themselves,

carried on.

Lifetimes later,

I look out from

this western edge,

stomach full,
and wordless.

This has gnawed at me since I studied the potato famine in 11th grade.  Standing on soil where it actually happened, well, I guess, made an impression...