All I remember: late evening
and the sun honing itself
diligently above leaves
of the tamarisks in the distance-
and from the ground the sound of crickets;
a chorus in the grasses,
that- and a small well of anguish
ripping itself up from my root.
The sun has no memory- burning
and extinguishing itself,
night after night
like an amnesiac.
Back then, I didn’t know you existed.
Now the well has dried up-
it is silenced, the crickets are singing.
Here are the bees,
their war cries a concord of humming.
The convoys have arrived, demanding their honey.
The leaves of the tamarisks
whisper distantly: Love, love-
I have told them your name.
‘For O.‘ was first published in Boyne Berries: Issue 14, September 2013.
The mushroom cloud billows to the cup rim.
Eyes watch the black
slip back from the windows.
Cobalt spreads over firmaments
frisked by frost.
The glass panes are scratched
I think first of shards I could shape,
jagged and bitten with rime.
Fingers tap the cup’s waist.
open releasing a shaky sigh,
leaving breath on the pane.
He leaves today, and you,
you count the hours and seconds.
Try not to think of splinters,
or heartstrings of pain.
When the cup is abandoned, like Medea,
it will grow cold in the absence,
‘Jilted‘ was published in Eratio Post-modern Poetry Issue: 6, 2005.