by Maura A. Conlon

Her studio glows like Grand Central Station

in the middle of a plaza

in the middle of some Ocean

in the middle of the world

Astronomers come by for coffee, unfurl their charts

Metro bus drivers pull up seeking change for a $20

while composers and candle makers wire light with

music as they sit atop the dark.

Wild blue wind stirs jagged palm fronds

as fashion designers circle Matisse-like pillows

and speak of new lines of tartan skirts pleated

just above the knees.

At the end of the day which never ends

Ireland hums a tidal tune–no war songs or tales of blood–

only the mountain of a woman rising from the depths,

stringing her mane of seaweed hair around bows and decks of

ships that follow, in transport

to her studio

in the middle of a plaza

in the middle of some Ocean,

in the middle of your world.