A Habitable Grief
I was a child in a strange country.
I was Irish in England
a second language there
which has stood me in good sted:
the lingua franca of a lost land
A dialect in which
what had never been could still we found
The infinite horizon. Always far
and impossible. That contrary passion
to be whole.
This is what language is:
a habitable grief. A turn of speech
for the everyday and ordinary abrassion
of losses such as this
just enough to be a scar.
And heals just enough to be a nation.