3926. AT MARY O'BOYLE'S

AT MARY O'BOYLE'S

My newest tongue, Mary O'Boyle, is

driving for you. At the rubble'd heap your mother

calls home, I see you peering from behind smoky

and torn curtains. Look at me, look at me, sweet

rascal, for I am calling out to you. Behind us, that

damned slag-heap, the peat burning, the spreading

and incessant smoke burning my eyes, it

all comes down to this one moment : Oh

how I want you now! Come out!

-

I cry like a singing cat for you, in heat and

wailing. I'll rub my rump on a fencepost if you

wish, I twist and turn in any exuberant fashion.

This dimming evening light, already gone and

now already early, throbs away November

like the headache you reek in my own sorry

heart. Where am I, if not with you? If you

are not here, why continue to do?

-

Come out, come out, oh Mary O'Boyle.

Your mother can wait - her and her toil.