Pissing On The Blarney Stone

Pissing on the Blarney Stone

Jan Becker


Leona sends me emails from Scotland.

Where she is the modern model of femininity

among the boys drinking whiskey in the bars.

Her emails say she is starting to embrace

the new culture

of life from a backpack

and youth hostels with dorm rooms

crowded with armpits and nose hairs,

falling asleep to a symphony of foreign snores.

She is a gypsy again

and she doesn’t mention Dave, the vegan rush fan

who is waiting just outside of Boston

growing thin in her absence.

She writes instead of the Scottish men

and Nepalese men who shower her with affection,

ask her to marry them in public Dublin

under the street lights.

Men dripping with diamond rings and promises.


Leona writes me from Limerick

that she couldn’t kiss the Blarney Stone,

because the Irish locals piss on it.

The only thing I asked her to do in Ireland was kiss that stone for me.

It is like when we went to Plymouth Rock, and the reproduction Mayflower,

And after wanting to see the rock for so long,

there it was, sitting in the Harbor painted with a red swastika.

and the tourists all took their pictures home to foreign countries

and faraway towns.

But my fingers would not press the shutter button,

and my photos were undeveloped.

I only took pictures of the Pilgrim graveyards

where the colonists buried their dead the first winter

in a place where the Indians could not count the Pilgrim dead.


Leona will come back from this trip,

having read the new theories that

Atlantis was actually Ireland that I mailed to her.

Her hips will swivel with experience

from the stares of British boys

with bad teeth

in air so thick with whiskey farts

that the oldest maid

suddenly appears to be a princess.

and the Blarney stone will shrink

from not having touched her lips

while she was alive and vibrant

and all the boys loved her.


And I know,

that if I ever make the trip to Plymouth or to Cork,

I will lick both rocks

with my tongue,

I swear,

if I ever travel to Plymouth, or to Cork,

I will soul kiss both stones,

and give them a tourist to remember.