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.


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