Ballycastle

It isn’t the most beautiful town on the coast,
but I adore it: the crumbling friary said to be haunted
by the Black Nun, the stone house on a short cliff.
Mornings we open the windows to the sea,
walk the pebbled beach, watch for puffins.
I go ahead to the fish shop for cod and pie
and consider his fatherhood, the way he smiles
with his eyes. How he hiked the narrow path
high above the sea to the castle’s outermost point,
just so our child had company. Alone in the car
outside Cushendall, green fields and fences, fiddle
in a short-ceilinged pub. If I didn’t have what I have,
I’d want it. And still I can stand at the shoreline
and wish it away. The salmon spawning and
on my plate. Like everything, I want it both ways.
I could hate myself for it, but what’s the use.
The waves, skinny birds, clouds rolling over the tomb
of the Black Nun, who asked to be buried at the gate
so she’d be trampled on by all who pass. Until now,
I have been careless with every man I ever held.