and maybe take us in.
I wake Nuala.
It’s time to be away
from this empty house,
which looks lonely
in the daylight.
We need food
to keep us going.
Feed the fire,
Da would say,
before it goes out.
And us with it.
We walk through a village,
pass the church,
and a few houses nestled together.
I peer in the small window
of a grocery store
and go inside.
The shelves seem as empty
as last night’s house.
A man wearing a shapeless hat
stands behind the counter,
“Please,” I begin.
I don’t have time for more.
He waves his arms at us.
“Tinkers,” he yells.
“Out of here.”
I want to tell him
we’re not those people
who wander around the country,
strange and different,
begging,
and maybe stealing.
A terrible thought:
Will we come to that?
A woman comes from a curtain
in back.
“Tom,” she says, and no more.
She pours us milk from a jug.
She presses brack, still warm,
in our hands.
We sit outside
to eat the fruited bread,
and drink milk
that belonged to a cow
an hour or so ago.
Inside again,
we give back the cups.
The woman is gone.
“Thank you,” I say.
The man shakes his head
and turns away.
But I’m strong again.
There’s one less village
to go through.
The road circles and winds.
Sometimes I walk on gravel
that’s sharp between my toes.
Sometimes I tread along dirt,
with patches of water
that reflect the sky.
My throat is dry.
I reach down,
careful not to jostle Nuala,
and pop a stone into my mouth.
My tongue washes it clean.
I sit on a rocky wall,
and roll it against my teeth.
It’s as good as a sip of water.
Almost.
People pass us,
paying no attention,
they have their own troubles
to think about.
A carriage comes by.
I see a woman in a feathered hat.
She has no problems.
She has time to stare at us.
I try not to pay attention.
Instead,
I think about the road
in front of us.
The Well
LOST!
A day wasted,
veering east
instead of south.
Since yesterday,
I’ve become a thief.
I stole food from a field,
and from a village store.
We’re bone thin,
skin bruised,
my toes missing nails.
How many days
have we been on the run
sleeping in sheds,
or on the damp ground?
How long have I carried Nuala,
her arms wound around my neck,
stopping to smooth down her hair,
to tell her I love her?
“Love Anna,” she says back.
I count five.
Five days?
This morning,
I see steps going down,
running with water.
Nuala points. “What?”
I shake my head.
“We’ll see.”
We slide down the stairs,
into a cave.
In the center is a well.
A statue of a woman
leans over it.
A poor statue,
missing hands,
her cloak green with mildew.
“It’s a holy well,”
I tell Nuala.
“The statue is a saint,
maybe to watch over us,
but I don’t know her name.”
Nuala doesn’t care about holy wells.
She’s thirsty.
We lie on the rocks
and scoop water
into our dry mouths,
bathe our lips with it.
Please, I whisper
to the saint’s poor cracked face.
She stares at the water
with painted blue eyes.
I look at Nuala,
the sister I love.
Water drips from her chin.
She should be sitting by the fire
on this cold and miserable day.
She should be in the house
built by Mallon hands
four hundred years ago.
I stand up,
take her hand.
I won’t give up,
even if I have to walk
a hundred miles,
a thousand.
I’ll get Nuala to a place
that’s warm and safe.
I nod at the saint.
“Thank you for the water,”
I say.
Nuala adds,
“Yes.”
Outside,
the glistening sun
leads us.
We keep going.
The River
IT’S warm today,
and wind pushes us along.
Black-faced sheep with curved horns
chase each other in the field.
Nuala takes her hand away
from mine.
She wants to twirl down the road,
her arms in the air.
The rims of her nails
are crescents of dirt.
Mine are too.
I have to do something
to clean us up.
I pull her along
to the river’s edge.
It’s wild and deep.
White curls on top
blow in the wind.
We dip our hands and feet
into the swirling water.
“Cold,” Nuala says,
splashing herself.
A policeman comes near,
swinging his club.
But we’re days from prison,
just two girls taking a rest.
Still I turn my head away,
and feel my heart ticking.
Market day in Athlone, County Westmeath
(This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland L_ROY_02921.)
Lough Ree
CLOUDS are mirrored
on the silver water.
Athlone is down the road,
with houses
sistered together,
split by a gravel road.
I ask about Ethna at a shop.
The man wipes his hands on his apron.
He goes to the door
and points the way.
We’re almost there.
The road is hard packed earth.
Sheep graze in a fie
ld,
their sides splashed with blue,
their owner’s mark.
We come to the Aunt’s door
as the sun falls over the land.
Inside, a dog barks
and Nuala hides her face
in my waist.
I want to hide my own face.
Instead, I raise my chin,
shake out my blaze of hair,
and knock on the closed door.
Nothing happens.
No one comes.
I peer through the cracks
at a slice of hearth
with burning peat.
A lighted candle flickers
on a table.
And oh!
The Aunt, wearing a white cap,
sits at a small loom:
the loom Mam’s great-grandfather built.
Her back is straight
as a blackthorn tree.
She pays the dog no heed,
so I pound.
My knuckles are raw.
The dog scrabbles at the door
to get out to me.
That brings her to her feet.
I step back
as if I haven’t been peering in
at her and her loom.
She opens the door
and eyes me.
“You needn’t make that racket,”
she spits out.
If it weren’t for Nuala,
I’d go on.
But a surprise.
Nuala, the shy,
the fearful,
holds out her arms.
The old aunt,
spider thin with a sting,
her face lined,
her upper lip like cat’s
whiskers,
reaches out and takes her.
She turns back to the loom
with Nuala hanging on.
“Sit, Madra,” she tells the dog.
There’s nothing I can do,
but follow,
stepping around the dog
who stretches out
on the floor.
The Loom
THE Aunt sits herself
on the rush-seat chair.
With Nuala on her lap,
she runs one hand
over the even lines of wool
on her loom.
“Nuala,” I whisper urgently.
Her head turns toward me.
She smiles a crooked smile,
but nestles closer in
the Aunt’s arms.
I bite my lip,
take a chunk of my thumbnail.
I can’t start feeling sorry
for myself.
The dog watches me,
one ear up,
the other down.
His tail thumps uncertainly,
until I run my hand
over his rough head.
He moves closer
to my feet.
I’m family now.
At least the dog thinks so.
I’m dizzy for food.
I glance at the hearth.
An iron pot swings
to one side.
Is there anything in it?
A quick look at the Aunt’s table:
cones of wool lay there,
instead of food.
But maybe the cabinets hold
a jug of oats,
or greens for soup.
“We’ve come a long way,”
I say,
to remind her of manners.
No matter how poor we were,
we always gave something
to strangers at our door,
if only a cup of water boiled
with a little chickweed.
She pays no attention to me.
Nuala hums one of Da’s songs
to herself.
I see Da’s face,
those faded blue eyes.
I feel his strength.
I will not ask for food
for myself,
but I have to do it
for Nuala.
“My sister needs…”
I begin.
The Aunt doesn’t answer.
I start again.
“She has to have…”
Then I realize:
the dog, Madra,
barked loud enough
to raise the thatch
off the roof.
I pounded at the door
bruising my knuckles.
The Aunt can hardly hear!
I step around in front
of her.
I raise my voice.
“My mother was a Rogers,” I say.
She peers at me with old eyes,
milk over blue.
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
she says.
“Rogers hair,
red as…”
She doesn’t finish.
She begins again.
“My mother, my grandmother.
The color of rusty nails.”
She raises her eyes
to the ceiling.
I’ve often thought it myself.
But, “My father thinks it’s lovely,”
I say.
She shakes her head.
“My sister needs something
to drink,” I manage,
ignoring my own manners.
“You see I have my arms full.
The child needs care,”
she says as if I don’t care
for Nuala.
Miserable old woman!
Nuala pats the Aunt’s face.
She pats Nuala’s.
“I need to find water for my sister,”
I say.
“In the pot on the hearth,”
she answers.
“But I’d give her milk
from the cow.”
A cow!
“Milk cools under the house
in back,” she says.
“A rock marks the place.”
A Brown Cow
the house,
weeds high,
my head bent to see
underneath.
In an open shed,
a cow waits patiently
for night to be over.
I pat her broad back,
and step away
from her swishing tail.
Near a pointing rock,
I find the jug of milk,
its metal sides cool.
If we stayed,
Nuala would have milk
every morning,
all from that one cow.
Maybe there’d be hens
who’d lay eggs
for her to eat.
I’d watch her grow strong,
her cheeks growing round,
her arms less like sticks.
If only we could stay
for a while.
I try not to think about my hill,
about my house,
and the hearth.
Is it all still there?
Did the bailiff tumble it
to the ground?
Are our bits and pieces gone?
And Da!
Is he alive somewhere?
I try not to think about Liam.
I’ll never see him again.
I touch the book at my waist.
“Horse,” I whisper for comfort.
But that’s not for now.
Now is for Nuala.
Now is for milk.
Back inside,
the Aunt points to a rack
with a few chipped cups.
I take only one and pour.
Cream rises to the top.
I long for a sip.
But, “Both hands, Nuala,” I say.
She reaches for it,
still on the Aunt’s lap,
and gulps the milk down.
I look away.
The Aunt twitches one bony shoulder.
“Is it a saint you are?”
She glares at the ceiling,
where a cobweb floats gracefully.
I’m no saint.
I pour a scant cup for myself,
and sip it slowly, making it last.
Thank you, saint of the well.
The Aunt points to the room
below the hearth.
“I suppose you could sleep there.”
I can hardly keep my eyes open.
I reach for Nuala.
Hair flying,
she shakes her head.
The Aunt almost smiles.
“There’s room for the child
in my bed,” she says.
I take the empty cups,
wipe them out,
then go into the small room,
to sleep alone,
without a sister.
I allow myself a few tears.
But the dog climbs up,
and warms my feet.
I whisper his name
gratefully.
“Madra.”
Days
THE days pass like beads
on a string.
The first day,
I watch the Aunt milk the cow,
with Nuala leaning over her.
Milk spurts into the pail.
“I’ll do this from now on,”
I say.
She doesn’t answer.
The second day,
she brings six chicks inside.
“I’ll feed them from now on,”
I say.
She puts a chick in Nuala’s hands
and looks away from me.
Every day I sweep.
Please see that I’m a worker.
I know she notices.
Nothing escapes her,
except the sound of words,
the clucking of hens,
the moo of the cow,
the bark of the dog.
My voice.
She doesn’t have much to eat.
But she shares what she has,
without a word.
One morning, I walk around
to the shed…
and jump!
A boy.
I’ve seen him before
in the next field,
tending to his sheep.
He has the beginning
of a messy beard.
His sleeves are ripped.
Strings hang from his jacket,
where buttons used to live.