AFTER A CHILDHOOD AWAY FROM IRELAND One summer we slipped in at dawn, on plum-colored water in the sloppy quiet. The engines of the ship stopped. There was an eerie drawing near, a noiseless coming head-on of red roofs, walls, dogs, barley stooks. Then we were there. Cobh. Coming home. I had heard of this: the ground the emigrants resistless, weeping, laid their cheeks to, put their lips to kiss. Love is also a memory. I only stared. What I had lost was not land but the habit of land: whether of growing out of, or settling back on, or being defined by. I climb to your nursery. I stand listening to the dissonances of the summer's day ending. I bend to kiss you. Your cheeks are brick pink. -- Ms. Eavan BOLAND