The Americans

Green Fields

44 Green Fields 1. The Legend of St. Brigid She was a poor girl minding her cow and had no place to feed it but the roadside. Then a rich man who owned the land came by and in a fit of pity said, “How much land would it take to give grass to the cow?” “As much as my cloak will cover,” she answered, and the man said, “I will give that.” She laid down her cloak then, and it spread out miles on every side, wool unfolding shadows of fields, the hills like warmth rushing in. But soon a silly old woman came by and stopped and said, “If your cloak goes on spreading, our whole island will be free,” and with that the cloak stopped and spread no more. 45 2. Descendancy Work: sowing what we could in a bog-seam until the lumper failed us, the horse potato, the patron saint of butter. We couldn’t pay. Without a handle on our hunger, heather lay crudely over the land. We did what we could. Now we curse the bailiff’s turf and around our cottage bank a fair fire. So what if our muscles spindle to thread? Bear witness. Watch while our nets split from witchery and crops bleed frost on a plank of dew. Your name will be honored as ours are, forgotten. The cottage will kneel to scalpeen and burn the grass around: scorched reeds, mustard needled to flame and crested soot. We’re your roots and heat. You’re our cuttings stashed in a pocket. The air flexes through old stone, dampened vine and stem. The walls un-vetch and chimney flies naked. If our people can’t have it, nobody will— this ink surviving, an X on onionskin paper. 46 3. Groomers Tumbling from sky the buzzards sweep fetchless, legs rearing out and down as they land. Their knived faces, voices claw-like: Hark, what goes here? You wouldn’t think it, but each has its own character: Bald Bitch, The Warden, The Pillar of Pall. They’re studied. You’ll never touch the artifice of their masks or smell their breath, like rot. Before approaching, they talk, settling things. It’s a privilege, really, the company of their flock. One of them flicks your hair, flaps back, then they rummage your clothes by the roadside. 47 4. Steerage The ships they boarded had names: Izette, Village Bell. The sea had another name: Gleaner. Fields swept to ocean the younger siblings, blessed by a boot’s glorious kick. Onto the Magnet they climbed, the Queen Victoria; they kipped on the General Green. Falling into the dance of trying to keep balance, “Let our legs be strong and plumb,” they prayed, “Let the jack-in-the-sails drown with his jug any flame.” 48 5. Their Ship Near Its Longing Home was an island moored to an empire. Home was a blister of blood in the yolk. Home was the storm that broke the mast when nobody warned the colleens. Home was a biscuit wrapped in a kerchief. Home was a kerchief draped on a face. One way, launched from the harbor at Cobh as they keened the magpie’s gray. Home was beyond the valleys of sea, a drink for the picker, a drink for the drum. Home was a prospect, those last few waves toward the shuttles of Lowell’s looms. ...