There’s an honesty between us
that out of hand instantly forgives
all the lies she’s telling me.
The way the weary dairy maid in spring
preemptively forgave the old crook
for stealing away her summer newborn.
Because he was a god. Because he was
her god. And she was his
to feed or slaughter
per whims of wind divined
by his fervent love of Eire.
