Wild Fuchsia, Deora Dé, means God’s tears in Irish.
After “Guidebook,” by Claire Giblin, ink and acrylic on Yupo
for Adrianne Marcus
The petals open like silk umbrellas, the tiny stamens bearing God’s tears.
The way mine bloomed this morning, reading the news that you were gone,
halfway around the world in Dingle by the sea. Back home, we grow fuchsias
in pots, lose them as soon as frost comes, but here, they tower over my head,
form thick hedges that line the narrow roads, a tunnel of scarlet. You were both
salty and sweet, difficult and a good friend. You would have loved these Wexford
strawberries in September, even while you’d have scoffed at the thought
of growing them this far north. The hedgerows move with the wind’s song:
fluttering ballerinas in crimson skirts, purple petticoats, long long legs;
their tiny toes pointing toward earth.