I sit in my grandmother’s living room—
the patterned carpet, spools of thread
the 1994 hunting trophy, dried flowers
china ornaments, a chipped ashtray—
and she talks about her childhood.
I am dreaming of industry, art galleries
of fashion, sex and cocaine
and the distance between you and I
east across the colourless Irish Sea.
I dream of winding in the space
like thread onto a plastic spool
but centuries of yarn tug at my fingers here
tie knots around my tongue.
My grandmother is talking of carrying turf
how the weight of this land almost killed her
how can I say:
It kills me too.