Éire-Ireland

Lingua Franca

We speak of linguistics
at this table of lettered folk,
the more letters, the better in this game.
We range from etymology
of testaments and testifying,
to vegetable pigments mutandis –
root crops that were too lingam-like
in their state of grace –
to Celts, to languages
that live and die and half-live
on sign-posts.

A joke to pass the salt
stops conversation mid-thrust.
A puzzled embarrassed look
at what 'salth' might be,
or indeed whath mighth might be
for those who thoughth
a soft Irish t
was just the breakfast variety.
The crispness of exchange,
tight, precise, now stalled
by the lingering, moist
half-sybillance of another culture,
of another rooth crop
mutating in full view. [End Page 270]

In the years before sex . . .

I knitted,
strange, lovely yarns,
russet-flecked,
rare indigoes.
I plained and purled,
needles clicking
to their own speed,
clicking each tick
of the clock,
length, breadth-ways.

I didn't have to look,
could gaze rapt
at fire flames
while it grew and grew
till it was a river
breaking its banks,
tumbling out
till the whole floor
was swamped.
I knitted
intricacies;
Aran crosses,
fisherman's rib,
blackberry,
garter and loops,
moss, seed stitch,
open honeycomb
making sure
the seams obeyed

and I knitted
scarlets, blues,
I knitted
to be useful,
until my fingers
ached, the knuckles
forcing through [End Page 271]
bruised skin
against the bones
clicking their steady click,
inexorable,
not letting me slow
down

and I knitted
till the last ball
had unwound
to a small curl
spiralling
the air.