Her lips part slowly, and her mouth sings
Guttural Gaelic. Her shouldered red hair
Shines with the wooden stage, her cream skin swings,
Pale against the strong beat. The hall is bare
With watching eyes. Hers are the same blue
You see in veins carrying dark blood
To patient feet, pointing arms. She opens her body
To welcome the rushing music’s flood.
Song inhales us into itself, we fall
Upwards through waters that taste like love,
Like her and the solitude of her wild call.
Holding a last note, her voice plummets
Back to air and speech, back down like a stone
To what gives us life and renders us alone.
*Puirt a Beul, Gaelic for “mouth music”