Michael Lauchlan


My son studies their history, how
they guided settlers to peat, broke
nations, tore families. He clicks
a keyboard as Irish reels mix in the air
with hiphop. In our sodden yard, geese
hunker down through a storm like tourists
stranded, nodding on hard airport chairs.

We mutter through October, browse
for news from a war. Geese rise,
circle into flight. What faint hope
still leads us day to day and town
to city and burb? Poor farmers once
dreamt of smooth, cold balls
buried in rows, before the blight.

Michael Lauchlan

has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Harpur Palate, and Poetry Ireland. His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave., from WSU Press.