My husband is never one
to garner confidence.

I tell friends either he’ll lose me 
shuffling through customs, 

or else armed beagles will hound us 
like girls around Larry Mullen, Jr. in the mall.  

Perhaps I’ll fall off 
the Cliffs of Mohr,

or find myself unconscious 
with a gaggle of drunken gypsies 

in a caravan.  
There are no guarantees anymore, 

from all that I have seen.  
None.

There Will Never Be Another You plays in my earbuds, 
from the plane to the tarmac, and he winks at me

through my armadillo plating.  He knows,
and he knows where to go, as if he’d been born here.

Floating off the 145 line near a Luas stop, we walk 
to Hotel Fitzwilliam.  

I am descended,
and delivered there.  It is Morning.

Citrön cafeteria, eggs, stewed tomatoes, 
mushrooms, pudding, bacon, 

and shower—shower pouring 
pressure streaming— 

a peerless bed with Butler’s chocolate
on the pillows.

I turn to sleep the day.  Wondering,
at everything—

at my brother and the priest guzzling
the communion wine,

at the gossamer paths winding with faeries
in the glinting moonbows,

and wondering still,
afternoon.  We are off to a gallery,

off to supper, 
and that night he tells me

we are off on a wild, wonderful tour
in the garden of Ireland next morning—

with my grim orthopaedic boot,
guarding a broken toe.  

I remember I wanted that,
but Galway bay just a little more—

Not him.  Not him.  
But why?

I remember the day I wore my favorite orange
dress to his house.  My father beamed

while Mother tried to stop me furiously,
“I don’t want grandchildren!   Not him.  Not him.”

I’ve loved him ever since the day, 
and since.  I feel safe with him,

if only for moments 
in this dream.