Poetry Contest

2021 Poetry Contest Winner

The Donn Goodwin Prize

Awarded to Phoebe Mitchem

Barely Irish
 

We make the soda bread with the
Currants because Mom says
We’re Irish, like it’s more than
Bone-dry scones and spiked
Coffee in the middle of March. We
Slather on Kerrygold and the Celtic
Cross like we actually go to church,
But we’re not Catholic and we’re
Not Protestant, just dressed
In layers of basil-sage-shamrock
With plastic beads and kiss me
On either cheek, clinking pints
One day out of each year like
We even know our genealogy. I
Guess it’s not appearances, my
Mom’s got emerald eyes but mine
Are just mucky brown, maybe
German with some thin-lipped
English and a useless ten or
Twelve percent green-blooded
Blonde Irish that doesn’t show.
Like, we’re not really Irish, just
A flurry of alleles marked Atlantic
European, unmarked by lines
Of green and orange and white satin.
But Dad plays the Irish whistle,
Dawning of the Day, Wild Rover,
Some dozen jigs about roses,
We’ve got ghillies decaying on
The wall and Galway crystal
trophies piled on the dresser
Drawers—do you know how
Many medals you can get for
Bouncy hair, lip-sticked smiles,
A Trinity Knot-riddled dress?
Maybe it’s American-Irish,
Muddled traditions like, I only
Tried Colcannon last year,
Claddagh rings against spray
Tans and a couple Eire authors
Forgotten on our bookcase. Fake
Irish, like we traveled old sod
Some seven years ago, Dublin
Galway-Killarney like bloody
Tourists, a full Irish and live
Music at pubs with the photos
To prove it. We toured the castles,
Graveyards, family crest crap in
Gift shops, bought t-shirts with
Dancing sheep and clovers and
Everything real Irish would howl
At, I can wear one with thick wool
Sweaters and obnoxiously tell
Strangers that I can’t wait to go
Home to Sligo, and they might
Not know it but I’ll still never be
Irish. It’s here and there then,
Guinness shirts hanging in Dad’s
Closet, the pantry, butter, snack
Names and a few novels by
Sally Rooney, commercialized
Pieces of a culture and drinking
Songs stuck in the Toyota's CD
Player. I grew up chasing the
Rainbows’ ends, smelling
Whiskey, reading about the
Kildare Pooka like I wasn’t
Just barely Irish, like I even
Knew the difference between Gaelic and Celtic or that a
Sham isn’t a pillowcase. But
Then Saint Paddy’s rolls back
Around and there’s about fifty
Something beer-guzzling
Neighbors and relatives with
Camp elf ears and pinching fingers,
Sonorously butchering folk
Songs over corned beef and
Cabbage, so I choke down a cut
Of the bread and try to blend in:
I guess I’m Irish.