my father denies

any connection to the place

his father was born,

or at least any attachment.

it’s the people that matter, he says,

blowing on the rim of his cold tea

what does a place mean

when they’re gone?

and leaning in to my questioning,

he shows me the bruised sideboard

pulled from the old house

torn down with his own hands.

returning to himself he says, should’ve

just burned the damn thing down,

but later digs out the land grant, sends me an article

on the migration:

thousands of boats pouring east

from Waterford, catching

on the Southern Shore like fish

in a net. Talamh an Éisc.

some of them didn’t leave and

here we are like cracked

foundations and here we are

and here we are.