Finding Myself in Werburgh Street
In the diocese of Dublin and Glendalough
up along Dame Street, past the Olympia
and Dublin Castle, in earshot of Christchurch
bells, Werburgh Street Church stands above
Lord Edward Fitzgerald’s vault, atop of
Swift’s baptismal font, not a stone’s throw
from where birth and death records lie,
like coordinates to be plotted, half-truths
waiting to be lies on deValera
and McQuaid’s map of cardinal truths.
I take down oversized red bound birth
books for 1965 in the records room,
turn pages heavy with births from Skull,
Mizen and Hook Heads to Sheep’s Hollow
beyond border crossings, flyover latitudes,
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