Part One

5. Dolls      In Dublin

The wounds

           along    lips and        cheeks

cannot be fixed.

 

Recall

 

          the lamps

                     on the      quays.

 

              Easter in Dublin;

 

sunlight

     hissing from                horses.

 

     They are

held close;

      cold hands,

     faces memorized.

 

The altars

            are whiter than

    candles        burning

                          after sacrifice.

 

          Vivid

sunlight,

the bar                       is full.

 

Laughter and gossip,

rumour and alarm,

 

                           they are turning back.

 

     Children,

looking down,

     looking up,

                           twilight falls.

 

Part Two

2. The Death Of Violence

 

When Christina immersed

Herself for Dante

She became Ophelia

 

You are my Ophelia,

Your life in flames

As I burn your photographs

 

Christina’s pale skin

Glows in the water

Her lungs fill with fluid

Ophelia is waiting for her

 

Your lips curl

—no, the paper is curling

For you can smile

No longer

 

The fires burn

Out of control

In Ireland’s youth

The intensity

Is blinding

 

And as your smile

Returns to ashes

From those ashes

Another Ireland will

Rise again

 

 

6. Violent Inscriptions

 

She marked a notch in her bedpost

for every member of her family killed—

There is strength in numbers.

 

When Peter kissed her, her gaze

fell upon these wooden scars—

like shallow open coffins

 

with ghostly corpse shadows

resting in the gouges.

One morning, she woke to find

 

PETER carved deeply in the headboard

and an empty hollow in the mattress.

The safety of the darkened room

 

was no comfort to her

with only five letters left

to remind her of his kiss.