Love Affair with Firearms

　　by Medbh McGuckian

　　 From behind the moon boys' graves

　　 bleed endlessly； from photograph

　　 to browning photograph they blacken

　　 headlines， stranded outside of time

　　 at the story's frigid edge.

　　 Though they are long buried

　　 in French soil， we are still speaking

　　 of trenches， of who rose， who fell，

　　 who merely hung on. The morning drills

　　 secretly， like an element that absorbs.

　　 We are right back where we were

　　 before the world turned over，

　　 the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone

　　 are all that Sunday means. Their North

　　 was not 'The North that never was'.

　　 Artemis， protector of virgins， shovels up

　　 fresh pain with the newly-wed

　　 long-stemmed roses， pressing two worlds

　　 like a wedding kiss upon another Margaret：

　　 lip-Irish and an old family ring.

　　 It's like asking for grey

　　 when that colour is not recognised，

　　 or changes colour from friend to friend.

　　 I track the muse through subwoods， curse

　　 the roads， but cannot write the kiss.

　　-