I am climbing the Irish skill tree
on Duolingo. I’m still on the basics.
Na cailiní, na fir, óleann uisce,
tá úll agat, that kind of thing.
I’ve been told I have Irish blood
in me, somewhere. I like to think
it’s concentrated in my shins,
the tibia and fibula, the marrow.
I was passed up for a college-sponsored
trip to Ireland two years ago.
I was too irritable, had already
gone abroad, and I was full of hate.
Now that I am a bit closer to full
of an old language, even its slightly
duller official version, and this tongue
belongs to people who precipitated me,
I might make my own leap across
the ocean this time, go where the stones
are still wreathed in life, where grass
is not greener per se but there is a
certain sense of history about the earth,
the lingering myth, whispers of the dead.