Ireland –Allison Solano

Cynthia dreamed of Ireland’s sweet looks.

Where fairytales could kiss beer-sweetened lips,

Not always thrown aside in children’s books,

but told by those with broader chests and hips.

(The dark side of fae tales capture her:

lips composed of bones,

necklaces of afterlife,

dark blood on white dresses.)

But Ireland proved to be a child’s dream.

When Cynthia found herself a lover true.

They moved to a house in the countryside

Where hills were bare and the wind often blew.

(Her husband never understands

the marks on her hands.

The soft, caressing burns,

the tender lines of red.)

One day exploring a hillside she found

That winter rain had fed the high ground well.

Once dormant seeds had turned to flawless shoots.

It tantalized and caught her in its spell.

(She looks at glossy portraits.

Hills bore her.

Cliffs and mountains tops

are more to her liking.)

And so she lifted her limbs up on high,

And to the heavens raised her joyous voice.

She felt the pulse of Ireland nigh.

So she kissed both of her hands to rejoice.

(Saliva still wet on the back of her fists,

she looks down the jagged gradient.

Insides swirl in sublime terror,

an intoxicating acid on her tongue.

She imagines scarlet stains

and bits of flesh corrupting the pristine,

can almost feel the sting of hidden rocks,

the slaps of the momentum’s wind.

It fills her with chills and temptation.

Her arms lift and she screeches,

the pulse of a magic land beats in her veins.

No kisses this time.

She raises one foot, and steps.)