Love the narrative; I am not sure all the line breaks work.
kol tuv, Ryfkah
In a message dated 9/18/01 8:40:04 PM, [log in to unmask] writes:
<<
On route to Ellis Island
>From the deck of the Irish Mist
Seamus Cuchulain squints through
the November sun at the stevedores
on Manhattan's dock and weighs
the air, littered with broken
dialects--German, Italian and shards
of sweet Irish--music to his frozen ears.
He is stunned by the towering skyline
and strokes the plastic cover of his
communion bible, a present from
Mrs. Riordan. He thinks of home;
Ma's 'two-up-two down'
on Court Street.
He watches a tug boat ferry the wealthy
to the quay, creaking through ice-riven
water, whose fissures are obscured by fresh
falling snow; the water's surface gleams
like boiling milk in a pan. Two towering
Percherons strain harnessed, impatient to haul
leather luggage to rich patrons
in Manhattan. Blue-capped porters rub
frozen hands in anticipation
of bright dollar gifts.
He fingers the quarters in his pocket-
a going away gift from the altar boys
at Our Lady in Ascentia-as the steamer
bound for Ellis Island approaches the Mist.
Seamus turns slow three-sixty and breathes
the Statue of Liberty, white and firm on Bedloe's Island,
the quiet shores of Brooklyn,
the brooding ballast of Ellis Island.
Closing his eyes, he pictures Donegal:
heavy with winter, churches and priests,
and his brother on a kerb, chewing hungry
bread and jam, thin knees jutting
through threadbare trousers. >>
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