All the poets had a síle and phíce stuck in their ear.

slick-bodied and swelling

as they dig through thick soil in the dark

fish-tails trembling with the weight of pregnancy

to shed and drop eggs to their birthing-grave

the children quiver and grow in the dark

listening to the heartbeat of their womb

the songs of the roots sing to calm them

and whisper to them to rise from the soil like a resurrection

on stout blades of grass they wander

wagging their whiskers and stretching their jaws

climbing and flitting from leaf to blade

to clotheslines, until their legs hook into soft skin

crawling to kiss a pink lobe the saints enter their cave

and whisper songs in gentle syllables that float from

wall to wall and swallowed by a drum that beats

and reshapes the faint ghosts into new words for the surface