It makes sense all the same when you think of it. Born
on the feast of finding the true cross, he’d always felt
a direct line, so to speak. Since Johnny gave up the drink
he’s killed worrying them blasted rosary beads to death,
his prints will surely be left on some glorious mystery
like a pilgrim crossing the Mayflower’s gangway, ready
to set sail. Just like the sail Johnny hoists through the neck
of a Jameson twelve year old. Launches it of a Friday
in the Black Swan’s back bar, where Nelly Regan’s pink
paddling pool might well be the lake in Central Park.
For miles they does come to re-enact crusades, to seek
indulgences for battles lost, run ripples in full sail, sack
purveyors of high castle walls, pray turret slits a melody
of martyrs, tall flags wave colour askew as if a tapestry
lost in a watered-down detail of its own threaded myth.
Storm over Manhattan
Couples are making for St. Mark’s for cover,
as you cover me with your Donegal tweed
jacket, passed down from your second cousin
once removed, who was removed to Great Ormond
Street after Omagh. Omaha Nebraska you said
worth a trip once we’d find a way to come
through this dalliance of ours. Lightning strikes
the Empire State. Afterwards, hard rain speaks
volumes to empty streets in a language as fluid
as embraces throwing caution to the wind.
A force ten blows our hull and mast relationship
beyond Liberty. We will sail to the mouth
of the Bosphorus, where Judas trees bloom pink
over Istanbul in pursuit of Constantinople.
Copyright © Anne Fitzgerald 2012