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.