Wicklow Road, County Cavan. Sixteen,
I visit nanny Mrs. D.’s sister, who at seventy-five
still rides a bike, wears a pink flowered dress
I recognize as a hand-me-down from Mom. We sit
in the kitchen, a circle of women on metal chairs,
Christ smiling from the wall despite his bleeding heart.
She says the rosary and we repeat, Blessed is the fruit, 
full of grace, thy womb… Crones’ voices droning,
like ancient druids, echoing in the linoleum-tiled room.
Aromas of puddings, soda bread baking, mouth-watering
odor of onions, eggs, mutton, tomatoes fried in fat.
Faces like ancient stones, pale, hardened, weather-worn.
Outside, the acrid smell of burning peat, damp earth
and salt air—the sacred, encircling sea.