To bless a soil that
has never been mine.
Yours, by vanishing DNA
and unrequited roots…
Known to you only
through fairytale or folklore,
not by palpable dirt
under your fingernails
as you fall flat onto its
poor, mistreated soil.
You never woke up muddy
or with your mind mudded.
Drunk, sure, all mornings—
but it was better, to you,
than the sobering grime
your ancestors are buried in.
But I’ve bathed in Irish rainfall
and absorbed it as oxygen,
careful to dance lightly and
relinquish some droplets
to the deserving wood
of my kind porch.
Just inside:
Soda bread,
on the island.
Sweet, like my mother
could never bake.
I couldn’t return home;
You know how it is…
The American shame chews
at me every time
I land on its deadened shores.
