When naming the storms the meteorologists
choose from Shakespeare, the Bible, the Greek gods.
This one will come bringing monsoon rain
and leave us needing candlelight.
The worst of it will be the flood
pawing the back door to get in.
By Pól Breathnach Gearrchaille ’s stócach i dtús na ndéaga faoi éadach rocach ar shop in éindí. Caithriú na beirte: cíocha a’ péacadh, fionnadh ag eascairt in ascaillí ’s i mbléine. Fiosracht is fionnachtain, diurnú ’s freagairt, tráthnóntaí samhraidh ’s a muintir sa gcathair. B’ionadh liom do ghliondar is do ghníomha prasa. Ghlac tú liom […]
He made it all too phony about affection,
made it all too creepy about using women,
made it all too Don Juan about his alleged amours,
all too evident he was twisted and all
too dull when anyone interrupted him by
so little as a word,
Each thin line of fresh blood on my forehead
is an insignia of age
my genetic baldness, ambushed and bled
stanched by paper scrap or band aid
Because they love him and want him to live
and know in their hearts he will leave this room
by neither window nor door, they have ordained
that the lintel that has been always there
Long before the goats there was a shadow,
a breath, yes in the beginning a breath
sifted light from dark, washed the dust
with rain, drew a sun in a big round sky.