they’d gotten married in America
when he went over to work there
and had lived for ten years in San Francisco
on a hill you could see the bridge off
apparently. and he gave her two boys
born within a year, and she dressed them
like chimney sweeps in new handmade clothing
and she in return painted a portrait of him
standing with his arm on the mantel.

when he brought her back to Ireland, though,
something had changed, and within three months
she had a bruise on her eyebrow,
a burn on her arm,
two cracked ribs
and a collection of broken vases
which would rival the Ming Dynasty.

she moved out of the house then,
with the two boys and a new baby
but for some reason remained on in Dublin,
renting a little modern building
across the street where my parents lived.
she stayed there in that place
for another six months
over which time the local birds and squirrels learned where to go
to find nuts and seeds left in little saucers on the porch
and a selection of very handy men
learned where to go if they ever felt like fixing a refrigerator motor
or putting up a shelf to hold small enchanted objects
and jars of colored sand.

I never saw her going into the house
with less than two bags of fake stage jewelry
or a sack filled with round sea-washed rocks
which she talked about as if each had a soul,
and one room got so full of dressmaker’s fabric
that you couldn’t close the door from the hallway
and eventually it would be labeled a fire hazard
and result in her eviction.

but for those six months I got very used to looking out the window in the morning
while I was getting dressed for college
and seeing her pottering around in the garden
in delicate
homemade gypsy outfits
surrounded by the glimmering of birds.