I wish I’d gone to Inishwallah
when everyone else went.
That afternoon I stayed at the house
to read and have some time to myself,
but as soon as they closed the door
I thought, I should’ve gone to Inishwallah.
It wasn’t too late to catch them
but we’d said our goodbyes
and the moment was made:
they were going, I was staying.
I picked up my book but it felt
so flat and paper-backed
compared with this thing called living.
I ate a whole bag of pistachios
and watched the ferry come and go,
wishing I’d gone to Inishwallah.
When they all blundered in,
filling the house with laughter
and bright, dripping raincoats, I said,
So what is it then, this Inishwallah?