ghlé sin agam – an scór sa pheil, cleasa draíochta, grá buan daingean
chomh gar sin do Dhia gur creideamh ab ea é geall leis.
Nuair a chodlaíonn tú agus tú i ngrá mar sin
dúisíonn tú agus ballbhrúnna ar do mhuineál. Ní
babhtaí óil a bhíonn agamsa, a dhaoine uaisle, ach eachtraí. Gach lá
leanann mo cholainn mé agus nithe á n-éileamh
aici. Bím ag iarraidh smaoineamh go glórach, a bheith
titleyúil, amach is amach. Tá an rud céanna
uainn go léir (a bheith faoi iontas de shíor
ar nós an chéad duine riamh a chuala pearóid ag caint) ach tá cónaí orainn
ar réidhe ollmhór is sinn ar snámh
idir dhá aigéan. Uaireanta bíonn ort an rud atá ann dar leat
a thréigint, dul ag spágáil
trí ghoirt agus an cloigeann a chiceáil
de na beacáin bhearaigh go léir. Uaireanta is gá
máirseáil an bealach ar fad chun na Gailíle
nó fad le cosa Dé féin sula dtuigfeá
go bhfuil tú gafa cheana féin
thar fhód do bháis. Ní cuimhin liom a thuilleadh
an sceoin, ach gur tháinig deireadh léi.
Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before
I can’t even remember my name, I who remember
so much—football scores, magic tricks, deep love
so close to God it was practically religious.
When you fall asleep in that sort of love
you wake up with bruises on your neck. I don’t
have drunks, sirs, I have adventures. Every day
my body follows me around asking
for things. I try to think louder, try
to be brilliant, wildly brilliant. We all want
the same thing (to walk in sincere wonder,
like the first man to hear a parrot speak) but we live
on an enormous flatness floating between
two oceans. Sometimes you just have to leave
whatever’s real to you, you have to clomp
through fields and kick the caps off
all the toadstools. Sometimes
you have to march all the way to Galilee
or the literal foot of God himself before you realize
you’ve already passed the place where
you were supposed to die. I can no longer remember
the being afraid, only that it came to an end.
