Bushwhacking.

by Helen McNulty (2020)
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1/
/
Even the bracken /
bricks it /
in this bog. /
/
Tiny tufts of flax /
Bow down the road /
Plaques blaze the old names of townlands /
Like gravestones. /
/
Do you remember /
the time we drove for miles /
Like a Spirograph through Scrahy /
Searching for stone circles?/
/
Last time, you drove the icy road/
to Donegal town/
of a hilly New Years Eve./
Our faces crinkled./
/
The low morning/
Sun (last one of a decade) /
forged new wrinkles./
/
We said nothing about what could be /
We never said “What if she?” /
/
We bobbed the back roads /

in silent anxiety./
/
Making sure she sipped /
every ten minutes /
from a sterilised sippy cup./

2/
/
Sleeping beauty waits /
snug in a chestnut chesterfield,/
somewhere in this border-land./
/
Domed in vernacular architecture /
A shaker chest holds us steady/
In its secret drawers./
She breathes /
Slow, heavy, /

Bluestack breaths./ /

Bushwhacking /
With providence and prescriptions /
In exact measurements/
/
We administer florescent yellow goo./
Her lips smack / /
‘Yucky Medicine’. /
‘Bleugh’ ‘Bleugh’ ‘Bleugh’ / /
She has turned a corner/
We are out of the woods. / / –