i bought some poetry today. caitriona o'reilly's first collection, the nowhere birds, and derek mahon's collected poems.
waiting for an americano, i opened o'reilly's volume, and found the poem which follows. although i do not feel so lost today, while reflecting on the today of 1984, i love the poem for its simplicity, its crisp observances.
Perdita.
I cannot feel found.
I filled your absence in me
with all the wrong things, father,
fardels, odd bits, gewgaws,
waves in tendrils and trees like lobster claws
and howling. Being chased.
There's a mesh of dark inside my head
behind my face
purely my mother's -
like air shelled in light, a purple bubble,
the thin skin over a scream.
