IV.

Mary R. Finnegan

Out of the Mouth of God

I’m sent to Granny’s every Samhain, going

with Daddy in the cart he’s piled with turf

to give to old ones left behind by children

who have gone off, away to foreign lands—

London and Perth, Brisbane and Birmingham,

Chicago, New York City, Philadelphia—

places I only know from maps and stamps.

At every house, we have a cup of tea,

a long chat. Daddy jokes that like a priest

who leaves the Virgin’s statue for a time,

we also bring a bit of warmth and lessen

loneliness with our listening and looking,

and all our tales and tunes and songs and stories.

Da also brings the post to the old ones—

letters and parcels filled with store bought clothes

and fancy foods, with dollar bills and banknotes

with the Queen looking very cross on them.

It serves her right, says Da, ruling these lands

to which she has no right. Tucked in the letters,

there are now photographs of people that

the old ones will not ever see again

and ones of those they’ll never meet. They hold

these pictures tight and run their fingers over

them, crying all the time. Da has a glass

that makes things look large, larger than they are,

so you can see the smallest things—blue flecks

in a brown eye, the pattern in a sweater,

a baby’s new tooth jutting from his gum.

For the ones who’ve no reading, Da reads out

the letter, then he’ll do the writing back.

Sometimes, he makes me leave the house for this,

to feed the chickens or to shift the cattle.

He says this giving and receiving is

the only comfort left to the old ones.

That and Daddy’s turf, and with it, our visit.

   The journey is much lengthened by these stops

and so we keep on, even as the darkness

settles and stars appear in the black sky.

And when the Hunter’s Moon is hidden, back

behind a thatch of clouds, we know the way

and will not wander long. The horses trot

along while Daddy sings. I stay awake

as long as I can, listening to his songs.

He says I am his nightingale because

I sing while I’m asleep.

                                           Each year, the woods

and groves have more and bigger gaps where trees

once stood and still belong, looking like faces

gouged of an eye, fearsome and sinister

as Balor. Daddy says trees should be cut

only for what is most essential—roofs,

and churches, cradles, curraghs, carts, and cudgels—

except for the three trees that mustn’t ever

be cut for any reason: hazel, hawthorn,

and elder. Daddy says a lady saint

in England held a hazelnut in hand.

Within it was the whole world being loved

by God, and so I carry one with me

always and look upon it when I need

to think of Him. Sometimes He speaks to me,

and His voice wrecks me like a long day and night

spent on the stormy sea.

                                             As we near Granny’s,

Daddy reminds me to be good and say

my prayers and not to fret about the fairies

and druids, or the rest of Granny’s talk,

for haven’t they all left us to ourselves,

the druids and the fairies, and we’ve only

the Devil and his demons running loose,

taxmen and wicked neighbors we must battle.

All told, the world is good, and we are God’s,

he says, and nature’s glories are laid out

for us to love and cherish like a child.

Granny and Mam, when they aren’t on about

which is the right way, old or new, agree

that Daddy’s tribe are naught but silver-tongued

poets who sing the stars down from the skies,

the fish from lakes, and songs from stones. All well

and good, but what of this world and its darkness,

asks one, or of man’s darkness asks the other?

And with his words, they will not be content.

But I don’t care, Da sings the finest songs.

Afeared of the unknown, Mam and Gran seek

a secret knowing of the mind or spirit,

they grasp for facts or magic, but, Da says,

there is no secret knowing, only truth,

the mystery of the world, formed in the mouth

of God from naught but chaos so I need

only be quiet and listen to the waves

strafing the rocks at Malin Head to know

I need not fear—the world belongs to God.

   Each year, Mam packs for me, deep in my sack:

the caul, wrapped thrice in silk, my rosary beads,

a bag of salt, blessed by our priest, not Granny’s

because, Mam says, he is more superstitious

than an old woman, and water from Doon Well.

I also bring a book of Scottish verse

that Da was given when he was a child,

some Gartan clay, four toffees, and two flies

so I can fish with cousin Declan who,

with his eyes closed, does make the finest flies.

There’s some that say he’s mad, touched in the head,

that he’s fear dearg or himself a changeling

because he seems to understand the trees

and plants and other creatures, heals by touch,

and sleepwalks to the sea but never drowns.

But, I know Declan and believe them wrong

because I’ve seen his guardian angel walking

beside him, their two heads bent close together.

Oh, how I wish I could make flies like his,

for salmon leap at them as if they were

gifts from the heavens.

                                          Journeying to Granny’s

takes three whole days and two whole nights, at least.

We sleep beneath a tent if there’s no rain.

If there’s rain, we’ve one cousin and two aunts

along the way. I’d rather we not stay

with him, the cousin, for he’s shifty-eyed.

Nudging my pack, he tries to look inside,

to steal my caul, to sell or trade or keep,

so I must sleep with it, wrapped in my arms.

We slept beneath the sky once, that was lovely—

to hear the sighs and murmurs of the earth,

and the soft breathing sounds stars make at night

as Daddy sang, réalta beag téigh a chodladh.

   When we arrive at Granny’s, she wants Daddy

to leave. She tells of weather plaguing home—

hailstorms and gale force winds, floodings of loughs

and rivers—but he pays no mind to her

and sets to thatching, mending, digging autumn

potatoes so she’s fed through winter’s dearth.

Mornings, we walk with Granny to the Chapel.

Three times, she makes me cross myself before

I’m let in through the heavy door that shuts,

tight as a lid, behind me. Next, she makes

me dip three fingers into holy water

and cross myself again, for Father, Son,

and Holy Ghost. I genuflect and try

to pay attention during Mass instead

of dreaming, always dreaming.

                                                         Granny says

be careful with my dreaming. Babies born

veiled with a caul at second harvest must

be wary and protect ourselves from fairies

and fishermen, rogue priests, and heathen druids.

My mammy says that Granny’s nothing but

a silly, superstitious woman stuck

in the past. Mammy seems stuck somewhere, too.

They both remind me of a half-birthed calf.

To get them out would take some wile hard pulls.

   Still, like each child born caul-veiled, I know God,

but tell of this to neither Mam nor Gran,

for they both want assertions I can’t give.

It’s only Daddy I tell on our journey—

the scent of seaweed gathered from the coast

filling my nose, the horses hurtling home

under the dwindling light of year’s dark end—

for he puts what I say into his songs

so that no words will be gone by or lost.

and when I’m old, and those I love are dead,

and I no longer know what’s true, and am

caul-veiled and empty as a treeless grove,

I will sing Daddy’s stories and remember.

Mary R. Finnegan is a writer and editor from Havertown, PA. Her poetry, essays, and stories can be found in Ekstasis, Lydwine Journal, American Journal of Nursing, Catholic Digest, Amethyst Review, Convivium, and elsewhere. She is Deputy Editor at Wiseblood Books, Founding Editor of Talk to Me in Long Lines, and Social Media Editor at Dappled Things. Mary received her BA in English from Pennsylvania State University, her BSN from Thomas Jefferson University, and her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of St. Thomas in Houston.