Cups of coffee: 3
Posters of James Joyce in office: 1
Dogs walked: 1
Pages written: 3
Hours of TV watched: 0
Minutes spent Skyping Ireland: 45
Books read: 0
Books to read: 4
Clean desks: 0
Messy desks: 2
Cash in pocket: $0
Blue Pilot V5rt pens on desk: 2
Folded National Library of Ireland bags on desk: 1
Years since Yeats’ death: 78
Times I visited his grave in Drumcliff: 6
Frost on my mind.
“Nothing gold can stay…”
The red tailed hawk builds a nest in the adjacent orchard, another hawk on the next tree.
Lights flash. Warning signs.
In deep water the octopus stretches its tentacles and embraces the current.
Badges and postcards litter the desk.
A letter from an ex-girlfriend’s mother to my aunt and uncle, written on the occasion of my grandmother’s death.
Years later I’d fall in love with this woman’s daughter.
Two weeks after I moved to California my father hit a hole-in-one.
Ancient scripts from Old Ireland.
My mother’s cousin wrote, “You would not believe a father could say such things about his daughter.”
Beechmont Lodge, Navan, County Meath: Sunday.
A photograph of my mother as a child with her cousins, also relatives of James Joyce—John and Desmond Murray.
Remember that day you caught the sun? When you crested the first of the waves my heart fell as the sleek seal’s head disappeared under the swell and did not return. On land I had no idea of the secret harbored inside you, the birthright of Neptune, Poseidon, fish-gods both.
Slope of sun across streaked red sky, the trajectory traced in letters too large for the eye to comprehend. The time you stared through the pinhole at the sun, seared a memory to take beneath the water. Lighthouses cast steady beams, wide and near, the rocks beneath were where we met. Somehow the pelt didn’t suit you, and that desire to land on shore became too much.
Crushed sand dollars decorated your hair the first time we danced at the foot of the lighthouse all those years ago. Turn and turn again, the quitting sun splashing fire across the sky, we moved in anti-clockwise circles, the land, the sea, the land again. Every now and again the sun would catch the shimmer of trapped quartz in your hair, blinding flash, terrifying premonition of a return to a watery life. On the edge of the rocks the seals collected in pairs, saltskinned and apart, no bitter irony in their eyes.