Slànachadh

by Màrtainn Mac an t-Saoir

Na ith am fòn-làimh’,
nighean òg nan dian-dheur
tighinn tarsainn.

Tha sruth na tùrsa
na phollaig ro dhomhain son plubail
tha dubh do fhrasgan troimhe is air fheadh gun iochd.

Ach seall,
tog d’ amharc cràidhteach suas
oir tha i dlùth – do gheug air craobh nan ubhal
a measan rèidh airson am buain ’s an carachadh am beul.

Aig caitean aon dhiubh blaisear mathanas do mhàthar
on tè ri taobh tuigs’ air dearmad leisg do bhràmair
’s san fheòil aig grunn tha taisgt’ ann lùths làn tròcair
sa chagnadh fhallain ’s san taisbeanadh air fàs.

Na ith am fòn tha siud –cha mhath dhut.
Na sluig na nach gabh slugadh.
Na caoidh na nach gabh caoidh.

Nach bog thu d’ aodann truaillte ann am cuman bùirn
mun cruinnichear an toradh ann an aparan ùr?

Healing

Don’t eat your phone
young woman of incessant tears
approaching.

The stream of hurt
is a pool too deep to splash in
the black of your eye-lashes streaks through it and is of it without care.

Rather, look,
raise your aching gaze a little
for it is near – your branch on the tree of apples
with fruit ready to be plucked and moved within a mouth.

Your mother’s forgiveness can be savoured at the core of one
another understands your boyfriend’s loose neglect
while the flesh of many contains energetic compassion
in the healthy crunch and in their testament to growth.

Don’t eat that cruel phone
nor swallow what can’t be swallowed,
nor grieve what can’t be grieved.

Won’t you bathe your blemished face in a pail of water
then gather all the produce in a pristine pouch?