BOOK OF MEMORIES

  I lift a book and watch as dust particles catch air (dust; tiny particles of waste matter lying on surfaces) sentences stir, structure returns to life after slumber, some things come back- having long been forgotten (memory; the mental ability to retain and to recall previous experiences) I turn pages with consideration, parts pressed […]

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ALWAYS THE LEAF

  I remember you, growing older, how your skin adapted- as if it had grown in the garden on the branch of the rhododendron. Shiny it was, with lines that time had tempered into it, ever so carefully, like you tempered peace into our panic, stillness into our hast, serenity into our cacophony. The leaf, […]

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THE THINGS WE LEARN, AFTERWARDS

  In a fat box by the skinny bed in a dusty room rarely regarded covered clumsy with crushes are the contents of a childhood- lost letters of love- all penned but never posted & cut-outs of pin-ups next to wrist bands friends twisted & time forgot. In a lost room fallen to dust hope […]

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STILL A SWAY TO THE FINAL ANCHOR

  Sea claims what man can no longer cradle but time’s tales can be freed from nasty nets when the wreck is beyond want, when the cable has been cut and we come to the call of the current. Rough becomes rust becomes wrecked becomes ruin, might becomes memory. Day is done but night unfolds […]

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OTHER WAYS TO DANCE

  I weigh flour and sieve it, like snow falling- a few select seconds of harmless dust to decorate these stopped streets with isolated sirens that stir more in body than the contents of this bowl. I reach for those tiny flakes that offer rise before pouring over the honey- a smooth sweetness to cut […]

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CATCHING THE RECALL

  They come and go, playing tag with the tide, swimming in to touch but the ocean is an elastic to recall. We came here once, a love of youth’s illusions, dipping our skinnies before I lost you on a breath without recall. It comes and goes; that tide, his touch, this time, so many […]

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THE WHOLE

  Remembering Nana Frances on Nollaig na mban (Women’s Little Christmas) Evolution 13. The Whole My grandmother, whose name was Frances and not Nana as I used to think, started baking cakes for Sunday’s tea on a Monday morning, slow and steady was her process like her concentration while waiting for pennies to drop from […]

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