Through the cracks
In memory of Shane “Jack” Watson d. September 2017
Nobody could grasp how it happened: After
he moved back, he just fell through the cracks.
Australia was fine but he longed to come home,
found himself sleeping rough round Liberty Hall,
falling into fissures of the pavement, mulchy smells
of bitter nights, slick of leaves in gutters, frayed duvets
donated by strangers. Should’ve stayed Down Under,
he must have muttered to the Big Dipper, missing
the envoi of the Southern Cross as he slid deeper
into crevices, became the revenant that evanesced
through shadowy tectonic clefts. No one could fathom how
he slipped down a chasm: left no tracks, fell through cracks.
from Conditional Perfect (Doire Press, 2019)
blind spots
Everyone has their own scotoma.
Even Newton toyed with alchemy.
The great vivisector, Aristotle,
toppled by the common eel.
Heidegger clung to fascism,
Schopenhauer to sexism.
Sackville-West believed
the Nile flowed backward.
I hope my own conviction
is not my Achilles heel.
In Between Angels and Animals (Arlen House, 2013)
COPING
Because I had a vivid dream
I could telephone you in Heaven,
somewhere my brain believes it’s true;
delusion is a kind of redemption.
My conscious mind habituated to
our almost-daily conversation,
my unconscious has found a line
to sustain our cellular connection.
published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, 12 Nov. 2022
Last Drops
And on the seventh day
I clamp the silicone satellite dish
over my nipple again,
aim for suction,
pump the trigger
of this blunderbuss
just shy of my heart.
I know before I begin,
it will barely reach an ounce.
I have not done
the homework set:
express every four hours,
ten minutes on each
to build up supply.
Easy to say, but when
the otherwise calm
infant cries, doesn't
want to root despite
all tricks in the book,
like nipple shields
and I’m already making
formula with body aching
after minimal sleep.
My aureole weeps
its final drops,
last chance to nurse,
infuse my boy
with so-called liquid gold.
The chill of reality circles me.
I lay the device aside,
reach for his little bottle.
Done.
published in The Stony Thursday Book, Winter, 2016
BRIDGET's HOPE
Read the poem & watch the poetry film here
I AM HAWTHORN
published on The Milk House
can be read here
Lunchtime, Undone
A tangle of instant noodles
compressed into a packet,
heart suddenly saddens.
With my fork, I unravel
the knotted hair
of an old sea siren.
I never heard the banshee.
published in The Honest Ulsterman, Feb. 2022
Darn
We mend what we love.
After ten fruitless minutes
of squinting through spectacles
to thread through the miniscule
eye of a needle, I delve
deeper into my sewing kit
for one with a larger slit,
backstitch into the fray
where the tear begins,
start to patch a white petal
on my black floral dress.
I feel like Dorothy Wordsworth
who devoted hours to darning
and transcribing, darning and
transcribing as image and
rhythm unspooled
but no doubt she was neat
where my effort is crude.
Now I spot that I forgot
to turn the cloth inside-out.
published in Drawn to the Light 6, Feb. 2022