Boccioni 1913

Great Grandmother Mebdh’s Mary life sized

with open palms, fingers lined up, her wise face

and blue uniform. Mary crushes the serpent

with bare feet. Mebdh prayed to her

every day on her knees beside her bed;

while stoking the fire;

in the small yellow kitchen

where she kneaded the dough.

Mary mopping the floor, beside her,

her robe tied up around her knees;

glory like soap suds bubbling around her.

Mebdh’s husband was a blacksmith and a well digger;

Hammer to anvil, iron flecks embedded in his skin.

Mebdh said she would’ve liked to try well digging;

Mebdh said that once in a while she would’ve liked

to sleep in.

Mebdh and I sing "Ave Maria,"

our voices big and round, the filtered light of daydreams

and Mary brings us vanilla ice creams

in cones that open out like tiger lilies.

We go out and dig a well. Mary tells us dirty jokes;

we laugh as hard as the sun beats down;

my eyelashes translucent rainbows when I squint.

Mary’s so different from what Father McLean thinks she is.

I go on a date with Mary. Dry vodka

martinis. A glaze of ice

on the glasses. Double olive. Nobody recognizes

her without her uniform.

The fruit of Mebdh’s womb took up two whole pews.

The kids slept on piles of old clothes, Philomena

snuggling her runny nose into Fiona’s

hair, gumming it up. Jackets

piled on top of them for blankets.

Fiona says Mebdh called girls split arses.

Mebdh often called out more than half

of all sixteen kids’ names before

She got to the one she meant.