Once

The lovers in an Irish story never had good fortune.

They fled the king's anger. They lay on the forest floor.

They kissed at the edge of death.

Did you know our suburb was a forest?

Our roof was a home for thrushes.

Our front door was a wild shadow of spruce.

Our faces edged in mountain freshness,

we took our milk in where the wide apart

prints of the wild and never-seen

creatures were set who have long since died out.

I do not want us to be immortal or unlucky.

To listen for our own death in the distance.

Take my hand. Stand by the window.

I want to show you what is hidden in

this ordinary, ageing human love is

there still and will be until

an inland coast so densely wooded

not even the ocean fog could enter it

appears in front of us and the chilled-

to-the-bone light clears and shows us

Irish wolves. A silvery man and wife.

Yellow-eyed. Edged in dateless moonlight.

They are mated for life. They are legendary. They are safe.