for frances

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Féachaim i dtreo na ngéanna
chun draíocht a chreidiúint
Mar níl ciall ar bith acu
Fíor ollmhór fíor aisteach
Sciatháin caite ar fud na háite
Squawk na meánaoise astu
Níl eitilt ag an gcréatur seo
Conas is féidir leis an aer a corp ramhar a thógáil?
Bhuel, imíonn sí leí
ar chraiceann an uisce
muineál a shíneadh, sciatháin ag fútráil go crua
Agus éiríonn sí suas
Thuas sa spéir
gan smaoineamh orm
nó mo dhá spadchosa

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I look to geese for hope—because nothing about them is plausible. Awkward over-sized body,
wings jutting out at odd misshapen angles, the squawk of impending middle age—this creature
cannot fly. How could air alone hold up her weighty torso? But she’s all outstretched neck, wings
flapping, toes skimming—until, up she goes, into the air, without one thought for me or my two
flat feet.