Donegal, 1884
Last night a star followed
the crescent moon, trailing it
west, motif for a journey,
and this morning, skirts tucked,
wading the brook she dammed
with turf, she soothes feet unused to
the boots she’s been breaking in
for wear in a Boston kitchen.
All her signs say water.
In its jostling she hears
brothers and sisters
lark in the sleeping loft.
She knows each shallow pool
below her dam, each stone
with a fish in its
shadow. Quick hands
scoop another trout up the bank.
She scrambles after, looks the field
round for the bailiff, slips
it flipping into the fattening
bag: this is demesne land.
F, like the scythe’s handle;
T, for the handle of the spade;
Y, the rake’s handle:
with the shank of a clay pipe
she has practised her letters
on flagstone. She is Mary Ann,
and she’s ready. Below, in the village,
they’re baking oaten bread.
Three times to the oven
means loaves for a long sailing.
Last Hallow Eve, blindfolded,
she bypassed the plate heaped with
clay, escaping her death,
and the ring’s plate, meaning
marriage, and set her hand
in the plate bearing water.
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