Only a few weeks ago, the sonogram of Jean’s womb
resembled nothing so much
as a satellite map of Ireland:
resembled nothing so much
as a satellite map of Ireland:
now the image
is so well-defined we can make out not only a hand
but a thumb;
is so well-defined we can make out not only a hand
but a thumb;
on the road to Spiddal, a woman hitching a ride;
a gladiator in his net, passing judgement on the crowd.
a gladiator in his net, passing judgement on the crowd.
This poem has a nice progression. I'm not sure what to make of the last line. It doesn't fit into Ireland, Jean's womb, or anything modern like a sonogram or hitch hiking. I would have preferred a closing that could have been the child's future thumb.
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