I drank a pint of stout with my dead dad
\nin McGlynn\u2019s last night. He was singing
\nwith the boys just like he did when I was a tot.
\nHe could do bawdy tunes with his brothers
\non Saturday nights and on Sunday mornings,
\ntenor hymns. He never saw this land of his father\u2019s \u2015
\nnever saw much of his father either. When I curled up<\/p>\n
in the bend of his knees on the sofa, my Dad spun
\nendless dramas of dancing bulls, sly Queens,
\nsimple princesses. A lone boy, he drank milk
\nfresh from cows on the farm where he boarded.
\nHe told of new cow pies warming his bare
\nboy’s feet on frosty winter mornings.
\nThis may be why, when in the company
\nof these critters, I crow. Mellow cows
\nand their noble beaus, bulls, gentle in courtship \u2015
\nthe cow always wills when. Their young
\ndart about with big eyes, new to the outdoors.
\nCows give wet kisses, warm milk, rhythmically
\nstreamed to stainless steel pails. It is their bad fortune
\nto be unable to bat flies from their eyes or scratch
\ntheir behinds in the field, unless near to a rowan tree.
\nThough common, they are Irish, these Joycean
\nsilky kine \u2015 innocent nannies to humankind.<\/p>\n
Like a rowan tree \u2015 he kept his family, received
\nthe gold watch, was proud of his daughters \u2015
\nmy little sister and me. My Dad did not
\ncast a cold eye\u2026on death. I promised him
\nmy ashes, also, would be sprinkled
\nwith wind, warbler and buzzing bee,
\nbeneath the rowan tree, in view
\nof a grazing cow or two.<\/p>\n
\u2015 appeared in Prairie Schooner<\/em>, December 2011<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"