K.M. O’Neill

Cursed to the Trees

Saint Ronan Finn laid a curse upon Sweeney, condemning him to fly
around the trees naked—like a mad bird.
—Sweeney’s Frenzy, 10th C. Irish legend

Pinions sprout beneath his naked shoulder blades                 hollow quills
forcing afterfeathers into layers of lift
fluttering daftness through      marooned skies
saint’s curse                            a loft of madness                    flight detritus
His fingers were palsied, his feet trembled, his heart beat quick
Sweeney jitters                       yew to yew                  alert as any warbler    
spooks easy                 ravensforesee                         soul loss          frenzy             barmy
his sight distorted, his weapons fell from his naked hands
Grandfather—WWI—Battle of the Marne—age seventeen
feet forever trench-foot numb            artillery-roarconcussed        berserk
He earned the signs of soldier’s heart—
Don’t talk    of the blood-stained mares who ride your nights

Don’t trust      any balm—save for strong spirits

Don’t feel        your own quickened pulse—   cursed to the trees

 

Dancing at the Crossroads

As if dancing a bridge near Tawnaleen could spare
all precedence. As if redemptionwas keener than
divine intervention. As if a drunken ceremony—

even with lots of laughs—counted as a valid sacrament.
Wool spinners wore fingers tender-raw to source shawls
against purple-gray not so soft weather, where peat clods

stacked up like indulgences. Familial matches flamed
at the crossroads amidst handshakes. Your man’s runes tucked
inside his rosary pocket as he begat large broods. The women

devoted in the convent, pregnant with child, or out of luck
their whole lives— the animals lowing. All the while, their men
prayed, drank, fucked, worked. Their herringbone caps set against
constant damp—fair skin splotched with chilblains. Some grew up

hearing Always be honest—or Hard work is a virtue.
We were charged—Don’t ever begrudge food to anyone.
Hands flapping across chests in a blessing. We learned
to pick up chunks of coal along the railroad tracks—burn

small spindles from side chairs to keep the fire going.

 

 

Kate O’Neill’s poems have appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, Journal of War and the Arts, Pangolin Review, Taos Journal, and numerous other journals and anthologies. Their chapbook Emulsifying Fires: Ansel Adams in New Mexico was handprinted on a letterpress in 2022. She lives in New Mexico and Ireland.