Sometimes her cats. Or Eliot. Or Myles
Na Gopaleen. She'd skitter round the page
turn verbal tricks. Her essays' many styles
weren't just a game - under the jokes, her rage
Bubbled away. As critic, she was calm
yet passionate; she tried to make you care.
Her writing draped fine textiles on your arm
or made you see, as if it was just there
before your eyes, the fine line of a pot.
She was the best of ghosts - her Dublin book,
all research and invention, feels like what
the truth was. Icy, fiercely she would look
and mock if you suggested any part
of all her work for pay or fun was Art.