THE SQUIRT UNDER THE BED

Who’s the squirt under your bed
that unfurled his fist yesterday
to pluck at my skirts? At dusk
his goggley eyes seized me in their stare

his lips in a crimson sulk
a tumid tongue thrust through them.
In the early hours I listened to his babble
and now I catch a whiff of his nappy.

Is he your sprog or is it thinkable
that he’s mine – the infant
snatched by the hag of Bull Balbhae
who reached a long arm down our chimney?

Is he someone’s wild oats
or a changeling from the fairy fort?
The youngster you always yearned to have
or a child I’ve conjured up?

It doesn’t matter a damn.
Let’s deck him out in vest and pants
or in ribbons and a frock
we’ll put him in the pram
and truck together round the block
regale him with the oddities.

AN LEANBH FÉ DO LEABA

AN LEANBH FÉ DO LEABA

Cé hé an leanbh faoi do leaba
gur shnámh a lapa amach inné
ag tarraingt ar mo sciorta? Aréir
chonac mogaill a shúl ag gliúcaíocht orm

a bheola ramhra craoraca ina mbreill
is a theanga ataithe sáite tríothu.
Chuala friotal a bhéil ar maidin
is faighim boladh bréan a chlúidín anois.

An é do leanbhsa é
nó an féidir gurb é mo leanbh
a sciob lámh fhada fhia-chailleach Bull Bhalbhae
nuair a shín sí a lámh anuas tríd ár simné?

An leanbh suirí
nó leanbh leasa é?
An leanbh do bhrionglóide
é nó leanbh mo bhrionglóidse?

Is cuma sa diabhal
cuir bríste air is léine
nó gúna is ribíní
go gcuirfimid sa phram é
is rianóimid ár slí amach sa saol le chéile.
Léireoimid na hiontaisí dó.