They came and went more or less
as planned. Crossing those bodies
of water, leaving what they
could not carry—fields of gorse
and heather, outcrops of rock
and sheep, dirt not worked into
the creases of their hands—that
last view of Derry shrinking
in the glimmering distance,
shrinking in the memory.
Still they boiled the potato
with cheap cuts of meat they could
not eat before. Hung that last
remaining bit of Irish
lace in the front window, spread
the linen on the table,
wishing for the dishes that
used to set the world to right,
missing the soft honeyed glow
of candle flame in all these
dazzling electric lights.
