Before I Knew The Devil

She is wearing a navy blue hoodie, worn jeans, and ragged sneakers.

Her long, dark hair is hidden in the hood, and I cannot see her green eyes.

She leans on the railing, looks out over the complex’s swimming pool.

It is transparent light blue.

–

An elderly neighbor plays an ancient recording.

A woman singing Wild Mountain Thyme.

We hear the elderly neighbor singing, too.

The evening sky is the same blue as the swimming pool.

–

I tell the woman in the hoodie my ancestor came over before the famine from County Cork.

I tell her I long for the day dreams I got lost in as a child, before I knew The Devil.

I told her I never knew how much I would miss my lush, green home when I ran away to this desert city.

Silently moving her lips, she relays these prayers to God, who is her Father.

–

She watches the rolling ripples of the pool restlessly shift in the deep end light.

Night swimming lovers coming down the stairs, lovers just out of highschool, absolutely free.

The Santa Ana winds, hot and dry, shake her hood, blow the melancholy out of her green eyes.

She crosses herself, then kisses me on the cheek.