mn
::
poetry
Irene's Trip to County Cork
Irene looked like Lucille Ball did
when she was young
milkwhite skin and true red hair down to her butt,
brighter than the colors on a Coke can
born in Brooklyn, she and Bugsy Siegel went out
but he threw her over for some
washed-out and chinless hookworm
who didn't make him so nervous
disappointed, Irene joined the Marines
and marched a spit-polished passel of
generals from Cincinnati to Saigon;
people said cruel things about her
but she was a clean girl with
a boxer's right hook
after Korea, Irene felt tired
looked in the mirror and saw
the fireplug shape she'd
eventually wear it was time
to go to ground. She found a farm in
Washington state and took Bill
with the property. Kids, dogs,
apples and wetbacks: nothing
very challenging -- but then
a stroke.
Now she collects glow-in-the-dark crucifixes
and silk scarves with maps of Ireland on them,
demands that the local minister help with her
funeral. "It's in the will," she says, money,
maps, and clear instructions. The ashes are to
be scattered at the junction of two farm roads
in the center of County Cork, by the minister.
Bill may go along to help but is not to touch
the envelope, being half the man that Bugsy
was -- here the minister cuts her off.
"Book rate. We'll just put you in an
envelope and send you to the County Cork
Postmaster, or whatever it is in Ireland."
Bill sniggers and pours the minister another
glass of ice tea. "Irene'd be so pissed, it'd be
a second Ressurection. She'd come back to
Washington just to knock us out."
Irene says nothing. She knows the future as
well as the weight of an empty promise, and
there's still a bit of time.
Last modified: Oct 24, 2008 2:28 pm.
Contact me.
