Outline of an Irish Woman
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
~ Irish Nursery Rhyme
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”
~ Irish Nursery Rhyme
I.
Flesh ignites at a much lower
temperature than paper, but
takes much longer to break
down. And so I follow slowly.
Act as silent judge, a shade
made entirely of smoke.
II.
I see myself in third person:
a nightmare that lights up my mind.
Skull catching fire
along the fault lines that splinter
bones. They call me changeling,
tell me I have been spirited away.
So I hold myself tight under the quilt,
star patterned, I stitched together.
So long I have been here that I
have forgotten what the sky
feels like when it bends to brush
my hair behind my ear.
III.
They mold my coffin out of iron.
They want to lock me in. I flash sharp
teeth, claim their fear as my new
name. A woman called unhuman; I give
myself permission to cut out my heart.
Exorcise love, memory, my lungs full
of phlegm.
IV.
The world tips, dumps me
into soft dirt. A hand reaches
down, down: I can see my veins
going to rust. I am ironized,
this skin cuts at the touch,
glows in moon hung soft.
It’s light catches a shoulder
shallow buried. A grave
unmarked. A vigil kept in fear.
Can you hear the fairy calls
beyond the pyre light?
V.
Witches cackle across night
mists, the sea bangs heavy
on cliffs, begs the earth to yield.
I am called to join them. Turn
just past the small village,
and charge into the waiting
arms of darkness.
VI.
They took my name, took my story,
turned me into the last of my kind.
VII.
Here I am no longer alone.
Together we rasp, grasp,
rise up in unison.
Lost voices combine in
a vicious song. You cannot
forget the fingers we drag
down the walls of your mind.
Ghosts turned vengeful
in taking back stolen flesh.
Dip our smoky fingers
gentle down the spine.
We will remember, bend
time to meet us here.
Flesh ignites at a much lower
temperature than paper, but
takes much longer to break
down. And so I follow slowly.
Act as silent judge, a shade
made entirely of smoke.
II.
I see myself in third person:
a nightmare that lights up my mind.
Skull catching fire
along the fault lines that splinter
bones. They call me changeling,
tell me I have been spirited away.
So I hold myself tight under the quilt,
star patterned, I stitched together.
So long I have been here that I
have forgotten what the sky
feels like when it bends to brush
my hair behind my ear.
III.
They mold my coffin out of iron.
They want to lock me in. I flash sharp
teeth, claim their fear as my new
name. A woman called unhuman; I give
myself permission to cut out my heart.
Exorcise love, memory, my lungs full
of phlegm.
IV.
The world tips, dumps me
into soft dirt. A hand reaches
down, down: I can see my veins
going to rust. I am ironized,
this skin cuts at the touch,
glows in moon hung soft.
It’s light catches a shoulder
shallow buried. A grave
unmarked. A vigil kept in fear.
Can you hear the fairy calls
beyond the pyre light?
V.
Witches cackle across night
mists, the sea bangs heavy
on cliffs, begs the earth to yield.
I am called to join them. Turn
just past the small village,
and charge into the waiting
arms of darkness.
VI.
They took my name, took my story,
turned me into the last of my kind.
VII.
Here I am no longer alone.
Together we rasp, grasp,
rise up in unison.
Lost voices combine in
a vicious song. You cannot
forget the fingers we drag
down the walls of your mind.
Ghosts turned vengeful
in taking back stolen flesh.
Dip our smoky fingers
gentle down the spine.
We will remember, bend
time to meet us here.
Nicole Inge is an MFA Candidate at George Mason University and the Assistant Poetry Editor for So to Speak. Her work is forthcoming in Remington Review. She has a preoccupation with researching for poems, writes about the monstrous feminine, and runs with her corgi.