Ancient Ireland, her stubborn earth
by roadsides,
sooty sons hurling in the navy blue evening
before dinner.

70mph
punching through peripheral gravelback roads,
Bo Diddley on the CD player -
Who do you love?
Quiet eyes behind dark sunglasses
my stickshift smirk
railing against streetlights, traffic, woman
(jeans licking her legs like words on paper
Ancient Ireland?
Her ass is Spanish,
close-packed like a church bell)

80mph
Bo Diddley
Now I’m a man
I spell M-A-N
I set my jaw against her hips and her teeth (perfect like a sky),
her whiskey smile.
Ancient Ireland, I crumble into her roaring bosom,
soft in the twilight.

About the Author

Jack O’Metty

Jack O’Metty is an Irish boy lost in London. He spent a year of his childhood growing up with Native Americans. Jack is terribly fond of life, baroque and the blues.