Chicago

Lake Michigan seemed to spread out
like another Atlantic before me
the river a hem; traced along the tall buildings.
At night from Sears Tower; we saw the city lights;
grids like lay lines as far as the eye could see.
It was the year the cicadas appeared
the drumming deafening.
I preferred the cicadas to the noise
in the North of Ireland then.
They come with their love chorus
every thirteen years.
When the fireflies got a look in;
how beautiful they were, their bursts of light
reminded me of the fires on the hills at Beltane;
or all hallows eve.
I thought that paganism was the way to go;
the on/off ceasefires seemed to run tally
with the mixed marriage that ended a war within a war.
In my mind again I'm sitting on the warm wooden step
outside the new home in Chicago.
The night sky bleeds constantly from
the low flying planes of O'Hare as they routinely pass,
you joked that you saw your mothers purple rinse
at the crafts window waving the union jack
and me Da the Tri-colour.
Ireland and the north lingered still;
on my clothes, hearts and brogue;
there was a drive-by-shooting in the area
we hadn't a clue as to why; but learned later
it was to do with bandanas and their colours.
It comes down to colours and flags in the end I thought.
Our outer landscapes may have changed
our place of birth; of memory remained.


Aine MacAodha

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