1.

My sea-blue father

Left me
Heart-burst

Broke as a dune does
Not glass, no cracks

A surge of softness
Slid down my throat

To stifle, for good,
Unendingness.

2.

My own me was haunted by a shovel
That chased me through the trees.

It called Hurry home to Mummy
And her theater of the drunk

Or “I’ll get there first!”

3.

Yes, the Mannings were peasants.
And I bet I’m one of them.

Ireland and its cliff-torn charts
Are engraved in my psyche.

Sick around the rich.
Hostile and obsequious.
Communist, Catholic, and over-excited.

The potato eaters in my background
Never got to emigrate, only to wait.

They’ve been erased.

Now I ask for the grace to rent and not to keep.
Unemployment, oceans, and a drink.

What’s in my bag?

A spyglass, a passport, some tickets, and a book,
A sandwich and a map of

A village before the eviscerations
Of Marketplace began.

4.

What you learn from torture
Is your physical nature.
Many lives pass before your eyes.

A little ramp down to a river
Before the tides increase the water
On the feast of Our Lady of Carmel.

Two children’s foreheads
Before the inhabitation of mind of being.
Yes, God, I baptized them.

5.

In the true idea
There is no dying
Because the world is imaginary.

If a flash of green
Foresees our sun as a star
At least you lived among colors.

Adapt to the night
And since the world has already ended
No need to fear your sleep.

6.

“Now then.
Say The Lord’s Prayer.
Now then.
I’ll leave on a light
And change your sheets
And wash your brush
In the morning.

Now then.
Nestle down.
Night is drawing nigh.
The mourning dove coos.
The hedge is bittersweet
And the violet still blue.

The fuchsia dances
On many legs.
In the bath there’s a spider
And in the hall
Some dust.
I’ll get a broom
And a hot water bag.

Now then.
Your bed is fresh.
Our Father Who Art in Heaven.
It’s 7 p.m., Dublin, 1947.
Be patient.
Your time will come.”
Love from Grandma Manning.