Those of us left
Three of us here,
four if you count the collie dog
you didn’t meet though heard about
the last time we spoke;
at my cosy domesticity,
compared notes on dust,
on box unpacking,
made plans for the weekend.
Those of us left
can’t plan yet,
can barely put
in front of the other
though the pressure
on the leash,
an animal’s hunger
for strange sights and smells,
reminds us that we must.
I grapple your lover’s grief,
try to stifle the anger
that rises in waves.
It might help
if I knew who to target:
the you in that box?
The stone I kick
into the river?
Nessa O’Mahony is a poet from Dublin. She’s published four collections of poetry, the most recent being Her Father’s Daughter (Salmon Poetry 2014). Her website is http://nessaomahony.com
She took her own life, Sweet Sue, swallowed pills
then sat in her car, the engine turned on.
A comforting soul, I think of her still –
would sympathy have helped her carry on?
Who can judge? The grief was too much to bear.
She kept her photograph in pride of place
(the picture of Sweet Sue, she was) – fair hair
in plaits, teeth in braces, the fragile face;
knocked down by a car a stone’s throw from home.
Did she beckon you to come, call to you
from the hard earth? The last child of your womb
untouchable behind cold glass; you knew
you had to shatter it. Riding at night.
No reflection from the small frame. No lights.
Lee Nash lives in France and freelances as an editorial designer for a UK publisher. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in print and online journals in the UK, the US and France including The French Literary Review, The Dawntreader, The Lake, Inksweatandtears, Orbis, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The World Haiku Review, Black Poppy Review and Silver Birch Press. You can find a selection of Lee’s poems at leenashpoetry.com.
Black sweatshirt sleeve
Veins pulse hot below
fragile flesh .
In next room tv
chatters, talk is small,
pleased you’re home
safe, not out with that crowd.
In princess-pink room after school
away from taunts and tripping you
Tender skin sliced,
tiny rows scored scarlet.
Each slash screams silent.
But it’s not all damage
– hurt given voice.
Glaswegian Finola Scott‘s work is widely published in zines, mags & anthologies. A seasoned performance poet she is proud to be a slam winning granny. Before retiring she was a Guidance teacher, closely involved in her pupil’s lives. Her short stories and poems have won & been placed in national competitions.