Connemara

At the trailhead, we find an ewe
tucking one lame foot to her chest.
Don’t, you beg me, it’s too late.
We keep on up the hill, swigging
bourbon from a flask. The sick animal,
the black peat softening underneath us,
the boiling ocean—we leave them
behind. At the summit, we chew
sorrel leaves and look out on tiny
houses. In fifty years, which piece
of this country will be left to visit?
The only way through is to talk
about the wedding.

By Rachel Marie Patterson