I don’t want to bury anything
but the thought of thawing out Thursday
makes me want to sink
into the marshes of This Island,
my blood getting osmosis-intimate with the turf,
to hide from responsibility’s unsatisfactory formulas.
Breakfast didn’t make the audition today
and your absence throbs
while my witchcraft-guilt swells
because I don’t really know if I can help you,
or if my actions may merely send your bruised island further
further into a feeble sea of well-rehearsed, cowardly attacks.
The way you turn it inside out
and mention misbehavior
as though it’s not the default mode of innocent children
has left me mewing in sorrow
because ‘misbehavior’ is not a mild enough term,
and you are blameless.
I was, or am, a terror.
Not that you’d know
from the tiny time we’ve spent together
“Aithníonn ciaróg ciaróg eile”
and in this regard you are no ciaróg (not yet).
But being a sassy kid
who rolls her eyes and states in self-definition (your greatest asset)
“Not My Scene”
You are One Urbane Ciaróg.
You may want to climb trees instead
and you don’t have to believe me when I say that
Safety is the coolest thing in the world.