I poked the peat fire in the tourist cottage,
Bought chops and carrots from the local
Butcher, and drank too many pints of Guinness
At the town’s only pub. When I threw up,
My new wife was disgusted. We took the bus
To Ballina and discovered there was nothing to do
That afternoon but see a movie and drink
White coffee in a café—it was raining.
I’d married because I didn’t know what
I wanted or who I wanted to be. My wife
Had a life plan. She was an actress
And certain she’d be famous. Now,
Certainty seems like a bad joke people
Play on themselves. Goethe prayed to his
Destiny, but mine didn’t seem carved
From stone or standing with candles burning
In front of it. I poked at the peat fire and read
Paperbacks I’d bought at the airport. As he cut
The chops, the butcher, whose left eye drifted
In a different direction from his right,
Nodded toward the window facing
The North, where the grass and hills glistened
In afternoon sunlight, and said, “You wouldn’t
Think there’s a war going on over there.”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say.
Published in Heimat Review, Issue 10, Nov. 15, 2025
