Seamus
New York City, nineteen ten.
Dreams were coming true and gone
were the Troubles in Ireland.
But under the Brooklyn bridge
she was pregnant, he was sick.
There their boy was born under
dangling wrought iron suspense.
His mother died birthing him
and his father died coughing.
Tides lifted the manger and
he flowed with the East River,
through the orphanage, off to
the uncle, then the cousin,
then the mills and big war too,
then on and on through to me
hearing the tale from Grandma,
great aunts, great uncles, always
different with each telling.
In black and white he sits here
wrapped in gold frame and sometimes
wrinkled hands that call him Pa.
Seamus, they’ll say your name here.
That is all I can give you.