found this online too:
Selected Poem by Anne Fitzgerald
The Price of 1965, Near Archbishop Palace
Under November’s wet darkness you enter
Drumcondra’s tree lined respectability, push
in a low silver gate towards St. Joseph’s
fanlight guiding you up its diamond aisle
like a nave to this red bricked three story
Georgian door nurse Gallagher opens. Lets
night in and the one you carry day ‘n night
for nine months to this anaglyptic hallway,
narrow as a birth canal, dimly lit shadows
climb walls, little by little, beyond return
to a top box room. Do you lift the sash
window, let the outside in, or not come
out till I leave your womb, hurting as if
the man who left half the idea of me.
Roses ramble your wallpaper incarceration,
traces branches that do not match
like how this came to pass and the unlikely
bonds that will betray. And as your waters
break your pelvic floor widens what
will be given up, what’ll not be talked
of becomes clear, as I appear crown first
under the eye of the sacred heart’s red light
into the hands of nurse Gallagher, who
cuts our cord, (according to a well buried
birth certificate up in Werburgh Street); who
hands me over for a fist full of Lady Laverys
rolled up in a black velvet band like a Roman
candle, to a nun in a Hillman making for the ferry.
