Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.

Your eyes are like a jungle
Beautiful and green
I'd find my way out
But I don't want to leave

Your hair like gold
Cut short and free
Stays soft as silk
Perfection to me

Your smiles a star
Brighter than our sun
It can light up a world
No matter where you are

I've studied you closely
For two years next snow
We've been up, we've been down
But there's one thing I know
That this heart between hands
Topped with a crown
Will go where I stand
With smile or frown

Your heart is like love
Forgiving and sweet
You've been sent from above
To be my own special treat

Your hand in mine, twiddling
the silver around my right
ring finger. The point
of the heart faced out,
in hope you'd turn it
toward my wrist. Your mouth
brushes mine. You take it off,
examine the stamp - "925."
Slide it back on, the crown faced up,
the hands mirror ours,
clasped
around my heart. I wonder
if my father knew
what it would mean to me
when he passed it on.
I wonder if he knew
I'd fall for a boy
and this ring would twist my mind in folds,
you're a menace, a silversmith
you solder my mouth shut.

I wear my loneliness on the ring finger of my right hand, upside down.
A beautiful reminder of
Empty coffeehouse booths and
Cold bedsheets, imprinted only by one.

Someone asked me what his name was,
Noticed my confused glare,
And nodded quietly towards my hand.
I had slipped it on without looking that morning,
Right side up,
Wearing a fake lover upon my finger.
I stammered as I turned it around again,
Reassuring them of my loveless heart.

Any stranger, near or far,
Can see my loneliness.
The brilliant emerald embedded only proves
To be a distraction.

My crunching across this frozen field
wakes sleeping sheep, due to lamb.
The nearby turlough ripples brush across
Moon’s fragmented image,
a lone swan pirouettes–
half a Claddagh Ring.

I welcome the fog
though it snuffs out the moon.
It is still so bright.
No sign of any lamb.

Days later I walk the same field
with a squelch. Incessant rain
has drowned the moon.
Still no lamb.
My watch flashes:
midnight.

Two hands, one heart
a band of gold.
It was my mother's ring.
Redolent of emotion,
the last of all her things.

Two hands, one love
a heart of Gold.
A Mother's tender care.
Though parted in the present tense
in Memory, ever there.

If I lose you after all, after this fall
After the leaves change and death fills the air
I'll just lie to myself and say you were just research for the secret book I'm narrating in my head
Internal observer, on the inside looking out
Taking notes somewhere in my cerebral cortex
Somehow without my consent the neurons fired them into my heart
And it was supposed to help me breathe but it has only become more difficult
A carefully executed experiment but apparently I have
Fallen victim to my own placebo effect
Is it real if I believe it is?
Is it like thinking happy thoughts in order to fly
What would prove as compelling evidence
I have to remain objective until
A positive correlation is made and solidified and
Thrown in my face
Maybe it's the way your Claddagh ring is still turned on its inside
And I don't know if that means you already belong to someone
Or if you think that means you belong to no one
Who understands all this fleeting symbolic **** anyway
Who really understands anything at all

All your thoughts
             And hopes
                      And fears
Are just about made clear

By an outward facing Claddagh ring
Worn proudly on your finger

Like a wedding band betrothing you to life.

When all becomes heavy, and you’ve made yourself so small that your pleas are like the voice of a mouse, remember: The sword must go through the heart, and you are to relish in this sweet ache, forever and ever, and that is a kind of survival. And when all is still heavy, and your pain is not the kind that will set you free, do not shun the hand of your loved one. For there is a kind of heart that can only be held with two hands. Both of them cannot be your own.

And so you'll sit,
Suspended on wires.
Strung across our
Darling country.
Resting on boyish charm
And
School day soliloquies.
Celtic claddagh knots -
Upside down and
Everything.