Ireland's OWN Poetry & Prose

naoscaire, mo bráthair
—by Míchealín Daugherty

Your verse makes me cry
for the pain
in your heart and
the dullness in your eyes from
a knife,shoved in one too many times
'till its point was lost
in a congealed sea
of nothingness
crawling like we did some mornings
out of those black hills
dodging bullets, Slieve Gullion
is Jonah's whale, filled
with tainted entrails of brits in the bog
I could cry or I could vomit
Or, I could send them home
with my eagle eye
in body bags.