A drop of fresh blood stained my hand, drip, drip. I felt for the source, the faucet was hidden by the
abundance of liquor. I had not opened my eyes since my unjust murder. A hollow hall, an empty bubble,
every thought creates an echo. I am a corpse. My blood is fresh. I feel the heat of breath and smell
life. It is the epitome of existence, one whose only claim to life is insanity caused by starvation.. I
look up at a gaping mouth whose only resident is a few green teeth coated with the algae of injustice. He is
not morning my death. He is craving my blood. I reach to stop him but my hand does not move. He
places his tongue on my chin and attempts to approach my cheek bone. His tongue is coated with a million eyeballs, inspecting my thoughts. I think to stop him, then I withdraw. What right does a corpse have
to deny a maggot? He is stopped by the guard banging on the cell bars. I believe if he hadn't been stopped
he would have eaten my eye. He is the machine of malnutrition.
They have sentenced me to damnation, to be forever conscious while resting in a water enveloping coffin.
The hungry man looks at me, his eyes are black, the whites have disappeared by the hunger of the pupils.
I hear singing, a chorus of cries, from the water " Irish bones layer the bottom of the Atlantic ocean,"
it is my relatives and kinsman who never made it to the new world. They too had boarded a floating coffin,
but they had had hope. I called back to them, but no sound came, I had forgotten I was dead.
The hungry man?s body falls to the floor, next to mine. The echo that was created when his cranium
smashed into the splintered floor of my coffin rolled around the bubble of a cell and squirmed back into his
mouth pushing out three of his green teeth. The green grass sprouted from his life creating teeth.
It spread like fire, the hungry man melted taking with him the bars and guard, while the all
encompassing grass grew. I no longer needed to die because at that moment I was
in Ireland. I looked down at the grazed grass, I wonder if my relatives ate it. Hunger rules, and it
says no more injustice, no more. I see a path I know. My feet leave prints of blood. I see a graveyard I
will not be buried in, it is Catholic, like me. As I pass twelve hands come shooting out of each grave.
They beg for food, oh, oh, my starving children, there's no food for the living we can't give it to the
dead. I walk past, the graves here are almost full. The sliding bottom coffins trips here become scarce as
the grave gain ten occupants. I know where I have to go: the place that held my
doom. I start to run, my foot prints blood becomes illegible. I can see my destination. The rectory
erected itself in front of me, I run, run, run. Finally I can feel the wooden doors submit to my will
and I entered. As I submerge my self into the meeting house, full of church going Protestants and red haired
Irish. I watch myself take my stance on the stage take a deep breath, now, now is my chance. I can erase
my death. The IRA will not lose me. There need not be any blood. No torture. I could scream stop, do not
sing your rebellious songs. Do not dig your own grave you catholic school boy. But I didn?t. No if I stop
myself from my eminent distruction, I will also null my pride, take away what makes me Irish. And I will
die without song. I watch as I strike my first note.
"On Mountjoy one Monday morning,
High upon the gallows tree,
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the cause of liberty
Just a lad of eighteen summers
Sure there?s no one can deny
As he marched to death that morning
He held his head high"1
My voice echoed in the hall, and not a red head was sitting. I even joined myself for the second song.
"Because he loved his motherland,
Because he loved the green
He goes to meet a martyr?s fate
With proud and joyous mein;
True to the last, oh! True to the last
He treads the upward way;
Young Roddy McCorley goes to die
On the bridge at Toome today."1
I run, run, run, I cannot be torn from my mother again. To not die in her arms is a damnation in itself. I
run, but in haste I have left myself behind. I reach my grassy knoll and embrace the out stretched arms of
my mother one last time, but the grass recedes around me. I push to hold the inevitable back but to no
avail. I am again laying in my coffin shared only with hunger and death. And again I am dead. My cell is
opened friends of mine crowd round me they are Ireland, they are here for my wake. I am scooped and
scraped out. Then regurgitated onto another prison ship. This one has no bars, but all the same it is to
take me away from Ireland.
My eye opens, I am still holding the button eye doll. There is no little girl. Now her bones too layer the
bottom of the Atlantic.
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