Every fighter thinks he’s getting up.
Take this whiskey and let it trail
through you, through as you are
with the likes of him.
Wrap your child in this quilt,
rock him slowly and whisper the sound
doves make huddled from sideways rain
under the bridge at Drumsna.
What we see in your eye closes him
to this place.  His people know—
fist unfolds a hand to shade
the shame a son brings home.
Take the scarf from your hair,
let the fiery shock stream from high,
for what they refused to see will burn
its way over the hedgerows and lanes
until he’s left alone to cool to stone.