Sligo, Ireland, anniversary of our father’s death

Here 6-year-olds read the forms,
place bets, and win.
Serious as bankers, they argue odds
and head for candy racks outside
the quonset hut where we sip stout.

It’s you we carry in our eyes, you
our gambling father who used to
phone illegal bets to Rudy
the man with no last name,

you who see the pack and one
horse edging through, the jockey
yelling, whipping as you’d say
to beat the band,

into the last furlong—
the ground shakes in our spines,
sun pokes over clouds then slips
behind Ben Bulben as for you

Henry Reginald out of O’Reilly
our pick Kilgarvin
noses first across the line.

© 1999 by Carole Simmons Oles