Outside the Irish National Post Office
The folios of my history dissolve under the weight of their own text. Pages erode from the acidity of their own ink. Translations have been lost and meaning obscured. These knots and nodes are hard to decipher. I think of politics and conquest – of monarchies entangling themselves in one another. I think of the incisions they have made as I lay my hand between the bullet holes in the post office wall. My memory’s dimensions have chipped away. These markings are a text unto themselves that dissipate with each generation. I don’t remember which ancestor died here. I don’t remember when the revolution occurred, or what sacrifices comprise me. Grandmother, were you scared when you arrived, a widow in transit? What better life did you anticipate, moving from soil to industry? These holes erode despite my will.