I dreamt my niece spoke better Irish than myself,
which can’t be true,
because I only recognize her as a diapered girl that
leapt from the carport
and landed flat-footed upon a shell.
The next day I learned that my brother,
Her Father,
sleeps in the derelict Tahoe in the yard.
The Tahoe that can only be started with a paper clip,
and is laden with old Capri-Suns baked into the floorboards
with other relics of my mother’s life.
When she arrived on top of the spiral,
I felt it in the bones of my heels and toes.
Saw she her own foot,
then myself,
and says she to me, “I’m blooding!”
And there is no way to tell her—
Except in dreams—
“Tá sé seo sealadach.”
~~
Samantha Borek is a writer from Austin, Texas. She writes a regular newsletter called "Who Gives a Focal?" focusing on pop culture, politics, and her devotion to St. Brigid. She is a graduate of Pratt Institute's BFA program in creative writing.
