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In Dublin, A Woman’s Voice
Second Iteration
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It is an excelling French restaurant
In an old city quarter not far from St. Stephen’s Green.
I sit under a canopy, cordoned off.
All around in the alley, shoulder to shoulder covivialists
Speak incessantly, or stand side by side drinking.
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Bedecked in evening dress, I see her strike an entrance.
The red and gold canopy seems her baldacchino.
Surreptitiously, I watch her high heels as she passes to a table behind me.
Shortly after, she is joined by a woman impeccably prosaic.
As they speak, only the one voice insinuates musically.
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I am bewitched enough to do the unthinkable.
When her friend excuses herself, no doubt a touch
Inebriated, for seconds I sit at their table in earnest.
“From behind me, so unaware, how beautifully you speak.”
“Your conversation is not overheard. I do not know French.”
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She smiles slightly, wryly. “French? No.” She confides in me:
“My friend and I were speaking Romanian.”
My own smile answers her nervously, but also covers my retreat.
At the door, before leaving she turns around to find my eyes.
She bestows a look of radiance, one proposing the promise of love.
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Thus, she has become yet another archetypal memory of awakening.
I remember the handsome athlete who sprinted away.
I remember the Renaissance teacher who pointed the way.
I remember the better version of myself who declined the honor.
But call me by my sainted husband’s name, not theirs.
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I was fated to be overtaken by his steadfast commitment.
Our past is an anchor for our future
Eternity, together.
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Steven Golden
April 22nd, 2026
stevengoldenpoetry 