I. Cork County, Ireland
I’m guessing that you are what lives
in the back of my throat, my fake swagger,
my unlearned fist: but I really don’t know
if it’s you. I chose you as my best guess because of the bloodshed
cutting grooves into your green shoulder, Rebel County;
because of the song that hums just a few inches below your green that
sounds faintly like fiddle, dulcimer, and banjo. The red neck
hides underneath brown skin; every now and again it erupts,
rebel and cheeky face upturned to an August sun. I hear twang in its
whisper. I wish I could still hear the brogue
below the red, below the fist; wrap my tongue around
Corcaigh instead of Cork in a green, pint-riddled and
iron breath.
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