Yes, it is Saint Patrick’s Day. No, I didn’t drink green beer or eat corned beef and cabbage, and I completely forgot to wear any green clothing. (I was saved by the fact that my winter coat is green, and there was a splash of green in my socks.).
These days, I’m just completely distracted by social media posts and news reports about the latest Agent Orange idiocy. Just this afternoon, I saw a car pulled over to the side of U.S. 41 driving home. Behind that car was a State Police cruiser, and behind the State Police cruiser were two vehicles marked “Border Control.” Yes, even the Upper Peninsula of Michigan isn’t immune to the three-ring circus of the Oval Office.
Mostly, I’m worried about the future of my kids. I was speaking to my daughter the other day, and she said how terrified of the government she is. The world they’re going to inherit is going to be vastly different from the world I inherited from my parents.
Sharon Olds writes about the relationship between her son and daughter . . .
The Couple
by: Sharon Olds
On the way for the country, they fall asleep
in the back seat, those enemies,
rulers of separate countries, sister and
brother. Her big hard head
lolls near his narrow oval skull
until they are crown to crown, brown
hair mingling like velvet. Mouths
open, the rosebud and her cupid’s bow,
they dream against each other, her calm
almond eyes and his round blue eyes
closed, quivering like a trout. Their toes
touching opposite doors, their hands in
loose fists, their heads together in
on consciousness, they look like a small
royal bride and groom, the bride still a
head taller, married as children
in the Middle Ages, for purposes of state,
fighting all day, and finding their only
union in sleep, in the dark solitary
power of the dream—the dream of ruling the world.
All siblings have their differences. I had three brothers and five sisters growing up. Three of those siblings have died in the past ten years. My two remaining brothers are Trumpers. My sisters align more with my cultural and political standpoints. Not completely, but close enough. I love my siblings, but I don’t get along with all of them.
My son adores his sister, and the feeling is mutual. Sure, they have their disagreements. There have been blowups between them, but those storms don’t last very long. Then they’re back gaming together online at night. My son can be quite . . . passionate and mercurial with his emotions. My daughter, on the other hand, takes after me—always thinking things through, trying to see an issue from all sides.
I know that my daughter and son love each other. Long after I’m gone, when I’m just a forgotten book in the library, they will be close friends. I’m sure of that. From the beginning, my son has cherished his sister’s attention. My daughter waited eight years for her brother, and she has adored him since the day she first held him as an infant.
So, no matter what happens in the United States—whether the constitutional democracy is preserved or an Orange dictatorship prevails, my kids will have each other’s backs. That gives me comfort as this country edges closer and closer to a Margaret Atwood dystopia. My daughter and son are going to be alright.
Maybe we can just pray to Saint Patrick, asking him to drive the snakes out of the White House and Congress.
Saint Marty wrote a poem in celebration of Saint Patrick’s Day based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
To celebrate St. Patrick's Day, write a poem about Ireland or something Irish. It can be Delaney's Bar or the Book of Kells, Guinness beer or a Celtic cross. If you're Irish yourself, explore your own heritage. But even if you're not Irish, make sure to include images of Ireland and Irish culture. You can start the poem with the line, The last time I was in Ireland or I've never been to Ireland, but . . .
Reek Sunday on Croagh Patrick
by: Martin Achatz
Thousands climb to the summit
every July, some barefoot to atone
for that one-night stand in college
and the abortion after, or the cheeseburger
eaten on Good Friday when Christ
hung on the cross like a graduation
picture. Even Saint Patrick fasted
forty days at the top, tortured by
a murder of demonic birds, a female
serpent named Corra offering him
colcannon, barmbrack, soda bread
salty as tears. My friend scaled
Croagh Patrick in her sandals,
her feet already hard as diamonds,
not seeking forgiveness or penance,
but simply to breathe the holy air,
touch with her toes the hungry stones.
This was before she got sick and needed
a miracle, when her life seemed
endless as the summer solstice.
She sat, read Seamus Heaney poems
to the grasses and winds, felt
displaced in time, Corra coiled
around Patrick's naked body, testing
his faith with her forked tongue,
both of them robed in sunlight.
My friend brought me a rock
from that sacred place, on its surface
a smudge of mineral, maybe hematite
or copper, in the shape of a figure
(Adam? Bigfoot? Patrick?) strolling
like a prayer toward God's distant eardrum.
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