Underhill

Underhill

There is Smith,
whose ancestors shoed horses,
or Cooper, family of barrel makers,
or my two childhood friends, Carder,
who carded wool,
and Servedio, server of God,

All with upstanding, productive
and even spiritual names,
unlike mine, Gallaher,
sometimes translated as
“mercenary,” “foreign help” or
“smuggler under the hill.”

I was raised on a Chicago street
that intersected
Overhill Avenue, as in
“Over hill,
over dale,
As we hit the dusty trail.”

But what’s an underhill?
Or how to you smuggle under a hill?
Is it the path along
the foot of a mountain or hill
on the side blocking the wind,
where you can sneak in peace?

I like to think that
I’ve crossed the Overhill
of my childhood
and now gone
completely Underhill,
smuggling words,

Blocking winds of opinion,
writing poems
and carrying them
like a mercenary
to unknown destinations,
as did my ancestors.

Author: Cynthia Gallaher
Website | On OMPJ

Photo: Jonathan Bean on Unsplash