Article voiceover
Dad says I was named after a pub. Mum says I was named after a poem. You named the bridge leading to the Cathedral after me because you were drunk and couldn’t remember its name I love and hate how much of writing, believing, and loving is lying in wait; open and craving You said you didn’t believe in God, not like that, but the apse of the Cathedral was visible from every window in your apartment I kissed the Celtic cross in your ribs without knowing it I lay in your bed and thought, ‘I should’ve written a poem instead’ It would’ve done the same thing —short cut to the innards or link to the promise— pleasure and pain and pleasure again, a means of finding the warmth stretch my capacity to care At the foot of the North Atlantic Ocean thinking of Mary Oliver You don’t have to crawl towards freedom, you can catch the bus to the stones for £1 With or without the struggle, the wild beat of my body still glimmers green All I have lost is here All I have loved is on the crest of the wave Mum turns from the bus seat in front, the mountains bowing to her, ‘it just hit me’ she says, ‘we all made it here together’ The bridge has a true name: Droichead an Dóchais - ‘The Bridge of Hope’ I left and you never called My granny is waiting in the causeway gift shop
With joy,
From Róisín