moon—
I searched for you,
but I was too late—
the constellations who remained,
and Jupiter, they sang
about you, how in the dark
over this house
while I slept
you arced and let down
your light at the foot
of my bed. Penetrating light.
You went through
the roof.
Was it then
I dreamed that I was
in Ireland? And had been there
in someone else’s skin
many times before? Everything
smelled familiar old. Old
was the woman who served
us tea.
She still burned
peat and coal-oil. Her home
was old cold stone
whose pipes stitched up
the outside walls
and leaked slowly,
turning the mortar
green. You’ve seen it
I know.
You’d followed me there
and when we met I held
your hand
in the narrow alley.
The high walls were cracked,
crooked triangles
of moss.
For once we weren’t afraid
of bandits.
It seems we hadn’t seen
each other in a long,
long time.
A long time.
You took my crying with
you
in a green glass flask.
I went home,
dry and alone.
Your lips
were salty
when you left.
Now that this night has
almost
surrendered, the noise
of it is letting go.
And soon:
birds and day. I should
have come out
earlier.
I should be less
sentimental. I should
disguise myself
as a man
and go to Jerusalem
and find a small hole
at the Temple
Mount and I should
empty
my pockets there. Or maybe empty
them back
in Ireland. Where
the bandits are.
And my people. Buried.
And your hand
in that dream…
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