And To Dust You Shall Return
My class has a test on Thursday, but today is Wednesday, and I am sitting in the Lady Chapel, and thinking sinful thoughts, and listening to a man who is brought in twice a term to say Mass (apparently God isn’t keen on women speaking in His house), and I am quietly memorising my index […]
Harvest
the best tomatoes grow close to the dirt. their cunning makes them sweeter, ripening in hiding like any masterpiece awaiting an end to incubation: dew-drops in shades of ruby glittering, garnet, sanguine beads slowly seeping, secretly, from spined vines and hives, from stems and suckers, tric
Dhá véarsaí as: Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire
Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire is an 18th century Irish-language wife’s lament, commemorating a husband murdered by an Anglo-Irish official. Do bhuaileas go luath mo bhasa is do bhaineas as na reathaibh chomh maith is bhí sé agam, go bhfuaras romham tú marbh Cois toirín ísil aitinn, gan
As you lay dying, in a language I barely knew
As you lay dying, you coughed up worm-strings of words in a language I barely knew. Smooth platefuls of sound, slipping like the silver-butter of moonlight on a pond. Ephemeral. If I cannot conjugate (I cannot) – I die, you die, she would die, too, – how can I feel the rough edges of [&he
Eggshell
Today she has scarcely moved. If there is understanding then that is what she feels this chrysalis Sunday, where new quiet doesn’t boom anymore – his echoes are softer, and she dusts them off into the bubbling boiling with the eggs. Three timid spines crest the water. She raises them carefully,
A Woman Disobedient
No tattoos, my abuela says es feo, muy triste paying someone else to give you scars, one eye on her telenovela and the other on my arm, she says no more pie
Whitby Harbour
You can’t quite put a finger on it – whetted, held up to feel the wind. Maybe it’s something on the – &nbs
Poetry
Don’t forget the hiding thought that made the moon so embarrassed. I’m embarrassed too moon, for you & your second-hand shine. Your eclipsing self-regard, your fictional solace above in a nova of salt angels & astronauts fucking on your aromatic moon belly washing away the footprints of
Poetry
He’s just a boy, you tell yourself as you lean into the sad corners of his mouth, curling up, becoming small amongst those creases, tracing that auburn cowlick like a damp ring road, loneliness in the bedroom between you both, his jarring youth seemingly lost under the weight of the room’s waves
