to be like a modern Joan of Arc, but I
just spent €500 at the Aran Sweater
Market. You can identify me at sea by
fisherman’s ropes, diamond island-
tilled fields, trellised stone walls
aplenty, zig zagging marriage lines,
and Irish moss knit—fertile seaweed—
as nature, unchaste. I’m armored with
patterns of past lovers and new
investments in wool that will last a
lifetime. My old self, untarnished,
steel-clad, wore the burnished gorget,
crimped edges warding abroad the
errant lips and teeth of strangers, I
articulated clinking joints of gauntlets
to claw away heart-piercers, and I
fastened leather straps of pauldrons’
peaked plates to shoulder black magic
bolts. Now, hexes hit me dead-on, no
armor to martyr-maid me, just wool,
and the knowledge of a salmon burn.
We were never meant
to see our reflection in steel. From
our canvas currach, we gaze as
Narcissus in the raging ocean and
sort out the self from the noise. The
cuirass I own is outgrowing me. A
gambeson could fit, but wool
sweaters are more my speed. These
days, I want my heart exposed.