Not all fairies are gentle, my grandmother said.
Words soaked in the ever-lasting mist
That descends upon the Irish pastures.

When a member of a certain family,
Passes on, you know, the banshee
Weeps for days, boy, she continued.

The banshee sits in the contorted limbs
Of tree branches
And sings her song

Her skin is fair,
Spoiled milk under the moon.
Fingers twisted like rotted twigs.

Don’t venture near to her
She is a danger, that one
She wails the entire night

Sobs that even fill the
Constellations with sorrow.
Andromeda and Orion wept comets.

The years drew on,
My grandmother withered away
Like a leaf on an autumn tree.

The banshees must have
Awoken all of Ireland
With their wailing, as they should.