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  • I read somewhere that the southern tip
    of Ireland is tropical,
    emerald green and warm
    below the 45th parallel.
    If I bought a one-way ticket,
    emptied the bank account
    packed a small bag and my
    navy blue faux leather passport...

    I could just leave.
    Disappear.
    Blend in and never be found again.

    I’m certain that my blue eyes,
    and strawberry blond hair
    and my name would
    let me fit right in.
    Murphy IS after all,
    like the 'Smiths' of Ireland.

    I could get me a job at most any pub
    where I could listen to stories,
    and music and dance
    at every céili and pick up
    a local accent in no time.

    Maybe I'll learn Gaelic.
    Maybe I'll write poems and translate
    the lesser known Celtic poets.

    Blue skies but cloudy,
    but think of the light from the ocean.
    The southern tip of Ireland-
    not warm like Spain or Greece,
    and not hot like that long,
    thigh high boot of Italy.

    Ireland, where I could speak the language
    but maybe not understand every word
    that’s being said. Wouldn't that be
    refreshing to not understand every
    word that's being said? A filter
    over everything like a
    gauze that only lets some things in.

    That blue faux-leather passport
    would become something else eventually,
    like the one way plane ticket -
    more than a piece of printed paper-
    transforming into a different life.

    The southern most tip of the island
    where the water slaps the rocky shore
    and wave upon wave
    calls me from the highest cliffs.

    I can look out at the sea and the
    beauty there and imagine
    that my family of many generations past
    must have seen and longed for
    before they left the island
    and came to America.
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