inishmore, aran islands, 2009
a.
his fog was gin and tonic-
he never cared
how an afternoon was misspent,
elbows perched on that hard oak bar
like bookends,
the space in between those highly literate elbows
hazy with the absence
of a bartender's advice,
advice that could never be given
after all
what kind of bartender
would recommend sobriety to a client
and still expect to receive
a decent tip?
b.
his face in 1999:
so much less than fine.
pig-snout for a nose,
as stout poured from his toes.
coarse barbs for scant hair,
as ale dripped on his chair.
hot-air balloons for cheeks,
as the vodka fell in streaks.
ten years prior, he got engaged to whiskey,
had a shotgun wedding in a cask.
the priest was a master brewer
and the best man was named smithwicks.
the ringbearer was a pint glass
as you chose to marry
a 20 ounce lass.
c.
the soil of inishmore is like
a wet irish desert, a soil
thick with rocks and low on peat,
where even praties struggle to grow old
enough to pick, and then boil.
this was your wet irish desert, colm,
before you became wet with drink,
before your island became a festering sink
of churlish fishermen and spiteful tour guides.
they say inishmore is the real ireland,
the old ireland that even the british empire
could not destroy.
but poor soil and spoiled ignorant travelers
have done more damage to your home
than entire regiments of black and tans
could have achieved.
d.
your face in 2009
stares up at me,
with an expression benign-
it was your marriage that killed you
and left you behind.
now, as your casket stands open
to the dubious whims of a half-shuttered sky,
there is, finally, a twinkle of peace
in your unblurried eye.
