with my soon-to-be former stepsister I sped toward the Skellig 
housing a sizeable gannetry snowy in June’s eternal afternoon

birds bright as 40,000 lightbulbs on a blinding white backdrop 
of their own dried shit, plastered on serrated flanks 
of a triangular peak plunked in Atlantic’s ecstatic blue

Unesco World Heritage said Leave those birds alone! 
but we were avid fans, found gannets four times fresher
than the monks of Skellig Michael & all Ireland’s revolutionaries, Romans, Celts

we couldn’t care less about Luke Skywalker
or his crew rigging the archangel’s rock next door for sound

we docked, we disembarked, we scaled Little Skellig’s layers—
steep, stepless & without a restroom, lighthouse, postcard kiosk, helicopter pad

if we were disobedient, our actions each were sanctioned by our saint 
her force fiercer than globalization, slicker than lobbyists, more glamorous
than Hollywood, more tempting than revenge

we saw those birds up close      

we took amazing shots with just our Hello Kitty-covered phones

when we got home we nagged our parents, who at the time were splitting up, 
about the splendid gannetry where every steadfast pair preens in the catbird seat 
of paradox—(semi-) protected 
& yet wild & 
free