But can you tell
by taste or touch or smell
which half that is?My father became
Irish by circulation
once the Mater had pumped
13 pints
of the dark blood of Dubliners
into him. Downstairs
I was drinking cocoa with
Dedalus and Mark E. Smith.
When my dad was closest to death
he didn't have
a wrinkle on his face.
I was downstairs staring at
an indifferent, nonexistent keyhole,
the solstitial keyhole of Eccles Street.
And Molly said, 'Men like to leave
their thing in you once it's done:
they'd rather fall asleep
like that. They'd keep it there
all week, if they could.'
I flew home staring at
Ulysses on the snotgreen seats.
All the taxi-drivers had thought
I was Irish-Scots
returning home at last
but which half was that?
I was staring at
the wrinkles absent from
his plump white face. I was
willing them back.
(First published in The Red Wheelbarrow)
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