POETRY

Plastic Bag from Corner Store Laments the Self


When they finally find me

My Grandfather, the Metalworker


Blesséd be his hands, wrought
with steel and iron, dusted with ash.
His days were endless,

Away in Boston, Riding the Green Line


I’m not home / to mow the grass

The Fall Of


What matters is
That we already knew this was over I don’t really see a point in continuing
This conversation.

The Ingredient


Every bird poem sends me
to the same place: the cliff
miles past the petrol station
where my ex and I bought coffee
on our way to Dunmore Head.