Leprechaun

Written after a Damien Rice concert

 Perhaps he is a leprechaun

3 inches shy of my 5'6" frame

his Irish accent rolling off his tongue

so much molasses on a hot day in Atlanta

He takes my hand

I think he winks at me

when she screams like a dog in heat

breaking solemnity with her zealous cry

My leprechaun is humble

and holds his love with care

as he plays the minor fall, then the major lift

and gently singing out "Hallelujah."

He throws his head back on the last

and smiles.

 

My leprechaun drew my picture

a stick girl with my name.

Blurred by bleeding ink,

now she moves across the page

leaving a streak of ink in her path.

 

His name lay next to mine,

the leprechaun and the Irish girl

with her shirt of orange, white and green.

Damien, it said, but only for five minutes.

Then it was only me.