her name was aoife
and I met her jumping
between two
abandoned beers
and a gypsy homeless transient
semi-retired accordion player
who was selling
“ask me about my squeeze box”
t-shirts
at a gogol bordello concert
aoife said the gypsy
looked like boris the blade
or oliver reed
in a wig and a blender

i knew then
it was love at first wit
her fish – my shoes
sole mates from the start
beer goggles securely fastened
body slamming
gently into the night-

when the song
“start wearing purple”
ran past us as a chance or
a mugger in an apartment with
thin walls

i began hoping
she lived close

& the mosh pit felt like
a walnut

& my hoodie
smelled like a beer

shoving hard
the elbow turned

aoife
turned turned turned
in to me
all combat boots & combat ass
pressing
so nearsoscented
of
ramen noodles & pheromone
flashing
monumental
opportunity

wearing a sunflower hairpin & an angel’s neck if angels borrowed the necks of swans on the planet she was from

with her nose ring
did i mention she had a nose ring?
with her nose ring –
aoife’s nose ring
coming ever closer
daring me
to kiss her —

a wastrel in cubic zirconium
pushing and
pulling and
pushing and
pulling
to the pulse of a rabid accordion

then she bit me –

as
her
one
good
long
coal
colored
bang

whispered in my bloody ear

“start wearing pink”

and that one night
was ireland to me