In the confines of my mind
I converse in my native tongue,
recall early school lessons,
Is mise, slan agat go foil, gradh.
She has a doughy face and bulging, raisin eyes; her belly-folds flop one over another in a fleshy heap. Her companions look like Mediterraneans trying to be gentleman, with their succulent lips, hirsute chins and cheap jackets.
March days we plan
with lists, yet life
keeps happening.
Mornings, I hide from light
as you leave, your bag fat
You think I’m dancing naked
to Joni Mitchell in front of the cracked
mirror we meant to fix a decade ago
remembering the time we pursued each other
in that borrowed cottage in Youghal—
stripping as we went from room to room
as Joni was spinning on vinyl.