Stroke Poem by Donal Mahoney

Ireland to America, long ago



In this Kerryman's eyes
big ships sail
and lighthouses flicker
light years away.
He's 70 today and sits
tombstone straight
in his caneback chair,
waves at a flake
hanging from his nose,
misses and curses.
It's his first curse of the day
and he's ready for anything,
an ancient ram braced for the British
climbing through the mist.
His children, parents themselves now,
sit in his parlor, silent around him.
When they hear his first curse,
they know it's 20 years earlier
and Father is calling
a meeting of the family.
They shift in their chairs
as his eyes and his words
whiz around the room
like bees liquored up
looking for something to sink into.