Poetry

Meghan Casey

Reading Dubliners                                                                                    

Here is your Dublin, city of deep draughts, of fox-eyed women.

You’ve known the ones who drowned,

the ones who stood to be bludgeoned until they could not stand;

you give us their yellowed picture portraits

and teach us to read the death on their living faces,

to find the slow murder in their cupped hands.

It is a difficult arithmetic

to tally the casks of gold, the bags of old bones that burden a people,

that make them mules treading ‘round the mill post.

Every man here is a failed poet whose silent curses ring the church bells

They bury themselves in this city 

and over years,

the earth falls in upon them regretfully

like a blanket of snow upon green fields.

Meghan Casey

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