The Craic in the Bar

The Craic in the Bar

Irish backpackers

in the late-night closer

living it large

no mothers and fathers

to take off the edge.

But the big blonde

shows all of the signs

leans out to touch

the boy of her choice

with a devout foot.

He pushes her off

with the flat

of one careless hand

the other hand lifts

the glass to his mouth.

She falls from the bar stool

slowly she topples like

the replay of something

that has happened before.

Her village ignores her

anguish of wanting

crumpled, no, crouching

below on all fours

like a runner beginning

the race all over again.

She stands and she leaves

a queenly tilt to her head

out there on the street

she sways as she lifts

a magnificent arm

to summon a cab

hanging out to fall into

her fervid bed.

But they don’t want her.

So I hold her steady

by the curve of that arm

—Why are you doing this?

she asks with a lilt

as a cab swoops in close.

Your mother would want it.

Oooh—she gasps in her rolling

birth-tongue, like raw honey

—There’s a low blow.

Deep notes she struck

in the lees of her voice.

Jennifer Compton