Foreign Places In Galway, I remember no faces but mine, in the gliding glass of the River Quay, unraveling without motion. Nor were there voices in the stairwell at night, for I was alone in a kind strangerís house, with the rain sliding down into oily strips along the bedside window. Outside there were cars, slashing through wetness towards pubs that lined the waterís edge and people who could not stop singing. I opened my hand on the clouded pane, trying to name myself over again, moving my lips to a mawkish prayer, its taut repetitions cradling me back to the one who taught me so gently to lie. Not even she would save me. There was only my voice in the deep night sky, a dry wind twisting on the wide River Quay, and a face on the glass, breaking open.
Christine Crockett's Questions:
Does the poem read on both specific and metaphorical levels--the experience of the "foreigner"?
I have reworked the last stanza.†
Does it complete the poem as it should?