Angela Alaimo O’Donnell has had a few flirtations with the notion of “Being Irish.” Given that March seems to belong to the Irish, she has written a brief essay, along with a suite of poems called “Crossing Irish.” This is the second of twelve poems. More about Angela Alaimo O’Donnell
in the shadow of MacGillycuddy Reeks
Unreal, the way we walk among them
full of our bangers and eggs,
clad in our smart mackintoshes
and good boots, safe from the rain
that pierces them like bullets from a dark god.
There is death out here in the beauty.
A hunger remembered in the earth.
The mountain rises slant, like mercy.
The slow slope of light eases the grace
under all the suffering and sorrow,
beyond the dark-ringed eyes of the haunted
whose hunger can know no end.
We call it drama, romance, history.
We trespass on their mystery.