You’re emotional, he says.

It’s all in your head.

I’m a kind man,

caring, sometimes

even love you.

But that 80 proof

and 100 proof helps

me cope,

you know.

Me da was that way.

And sure my family understands.

It’s how we all cope.

Been doing so for generations.

 

But she?

She’d love to tell him, explain.

She’s emotionally dying,

becoming brittle

where once was voluptuous.

Sour where once was wild sweet honey.

Calloused, blistered and broken

where once was cream, smooth and warm.

 

She is selfish, if she leaves.

There’ll be nothing for her.

It’s how Ireland treats its women,

its mothers, its wives.

 

Men in starched white shirts,

black form fitting suits,

with their leather suitcases

and curled pointed shoes

tap out commands, directions,

orders.

You’re emotional, they say.

But she?

She’d love to tell him, explain.

She’s emotionally dying.

She is emotionally dying.