Chatham Light, and: Eel at Market, and: Why McGarry
2005; Irish American Cultural Institute; Volume: 40; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/eir.2005.0030
ISSN1550-5162
Autores ResumoChatham Light Earlier, on bikes, we'd stopped to watch the sun discern the cut glass of a wedding. Such an array. The flutes already seemed indelicately to want to break the sequence, raise a toast right then to sun, the sea, themselves, and this soft sand we find our selves conforming to. The bride and groom are done now, performing their I dos and, whilst we rode the coast, bathed, dined, the wedding has wound down beneath the Tennis Club marquee. Near-distant repartee relaxes to small talk the odd, light flap of canvas pays no attention to. All chin and clink of glass are done, and blue clay cools on courts tomorrow's first-come, rakish birds will scuff. The lighthouse only seems to seek us out. It sieves the sand in swooping revolutions, assails the uncontested betweenness of tide. Some kids a ways along the beach traipse to form their own non-search party. The early summer cottage set. A sweet whiff of their light disaffection carries to where we take turns turning to the sky's high spirit miscellany of stars. So trite to note how bright they are, how limitless- ly they stretch. And yet we do. Their glow illumines what few wisps of cloud are left to disentangle then evaporate. [End Page 276] The sun-warmed sand has kept its heat for us to make this form we do not settle in. How separate, continual, blood is, cycling around the shape that makes the heart. A muscle. The size of your fist. Can love be that? Or the first, slightest sign of it? Light dials round us as if to hustle what time we have to love and fall apart, make each other out. The sky falls first to your then my eyes' so easily circum- navigated little waters, to bathe and smoulder there in the unhurried rush of bearable lightness, repeatingly pulsing and passing. Yes, we say. What gives. Grit in teeth. On tongue. Your nails dig deeper to colder sand, the sort you can hold on to. Now there. Now and then. Yes. And then again. Eel at Market the closer the wider the monger's the conger's hack-saw cleaver fang-full yawn came became to the head a manner held down of crown [End Page 277] Why McGarry Why McGarry took a crooklock across the head landed him up in the County a bit concussed was more a case of mistaken identity (a bouncer up the Seasons came across him thrust half-in half-out of the proprietor's ex-wife 's snazzy black leather interior Ford Capri, and took him for one of the queogh-boy brothers F-, panelbeaters down the Moy who, come Friday, would hit a disco across the border for a car for Saturday's sidejob breaking down her numbers) than anything to get bent out of shape over, although, between him and your man and the purr of motors ticking over, word got out there's no more to it than the struck head McGarry remembers.
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