Irish Drunk

Green runs in your blood
Your tongue is silver-touched
Your heart is heavy with history,

Liquor infusions

And blood from the past.

Swimming with mad-eyed minnows

A sumptuous fallen God. 

Your honour

stinks of failed fishing trips

to Galway.

A rich blue sweater stiff with 

salt and sewn up tight with

bladderwrack.

Yet, there are times when you
list the things
you love about me 
without slurring. 

And you draw me into a
dancing grace
Not a stumble, roaring drunk
But a tiny exquisite memory of 
my man

before the drink took your looks
and teeth and hope.

And the lead bells of St Paddy's 
toll unity as I hold your 
tremored hand  
and feel love that is 
whiskey fierce
and hangover fragile.

This gutter is our kingdom.
And you, my bamboozled Fisher Prince.