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Walking Backwards to the Wake

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Summary:
national poetry month 2. we''re all celts or so they tell me.

 

Seduced by the tongue in her hair 

collapsed from shoulder as waterfall 

captured by an artist 

who dreams in sunsets 

 

Nape of her neck flowed into negligee 

and surely, breath could only find 

refuge in intensive care, the closest 

hospital was a hundred ambulances away 

 

Everyone has a date with an undertaker 

all the humour of a funeral parlour, 

until she drew a swallow on my neck 

and we took flight for one nite only; 

I came prematurely on her emerald dress 

and left a stain on her IRA parade 

    2
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