i can
finally understand what she's
saying.
my ears being practiced in her Irish
way
of talking.
she's learned to slow down
when speaking to me,
enunciating her words
more clearly
as if i'm a small child who's
hit his head
too many times.
we talk
about Philip Larkin
again,
our mutual friend
and wonderful
book
the Whitsun Weddings.
i could listen to her
now recite a book of poems,
or just a grocery list,
the lilt, the tug and pull of her
homeland.
the sound of salted waves.
i can almost smell the sea.
the city of Belfast in her voice.
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