Violent Ireland
Inertia cuckolds you,
hysteria dappled, a portrait
hung in the cubism of
oceanic ebbs; the tides
push and pull likes lips
to lips -

lull the wailing of the
wild women in the hills;

my own kin
shrinks before
Hellenistic queens,

holding olive branches
outward; scepters, soliloquy,
sunken eyelids,

Isolde
somewhere in the forests
wandering.

Violent Ireland
is a war within me. Gravity
peals the layers of skin
exposing verse and briar bone,
marrow and mannerism;
the homestead in my blood like
fire.

I wake in the night with
its weight in my mouth;
the island exposed in my
hands. My own voice
betrays my place in the world;
mother-tongues breaching
the precipice of teeth; feet
rooted in the stone; breasts
broken beneath her embrace;
those embers of her lush
whisper still on the shoreline
of my earlobes, thinking
of the war lords still entangled
in their tombs of incense,
where the feted bread breaks
over our heads, where violent
outcries fly us home.