Death of an Irish Father

Part One
An Irish Curse

Do you think I am without a father now?
Without love?
Without the one who cares
To hold the stronger up
And shoulder on
To cry
And chest upon
To lie my head
And hand of which
To squeeze and reach
For comfort?

behold
a seed then
large and oak that
from the edges seed
that cracks
in dark and darkest
soil

becomes in years of two or three or four
a stick
a staff
a leader

Held in Erin’s hand

In the hand of Aaron
In the land of Aaron

Ah Ah Rohn

Of Levi

Remunerative Priest

whose words of Moses pushed
An Irish curse

From forward proud
And chest defiant

Eloquent and fluent

invisible as
the tower of
Yeats

On which my father stands
and waits

On my behalf

watching for
the trolls that hide
beneath the bridge

watching for the trolls of Erin.

by Mary Ann Sullivan