sueSue Morgan lives in Northern Ireland. Her work has been published in Abridged, The Southword Literary Journal, A New Ulster and Crannog Magazine. She read some of her poetry at Queen’s University in June 2012 as part of the Seamus Heaney Summer School. She has been long-listed for the 2013 Venture Award.



89, Quebec Road

She lay on the bed, light as a robin,
her hollow bones sucked dry
of tomorrow’s hale marrow.
I could hold her up
to the crescent moon
and see clear through to a mourning.

If expecting angel-dust
and Mother’s love,
I found cyanide and benzene,
dead embers
and tear-streaked dribbling of tar.
For there was a raw hacking,

a heaving of black lung.
A drummer boy raps at the window –
the house is empty now,
a Christmas rime, a hoar-frost,
reminds of contracts exchanged
one cold Thursday.



An Afternoon with Asperger’s

Through the window
Cars pass.
White cars and vans.
There is a bicycle chained to black railings,
I don’t know who chained it
I wasn’t sitting here then.
Brake lights, vehicles stop for the traffic lights
Both red.
The scarlet sound of an ambulance.
A tall man and his girlfriend
Wearing leather jackets
Look in and smile.
I turn my head
Pretend I don’t notice.
Stealing a moment to breathe.
Get back to the rhythm,
The whine of the bus,
A woman with red hair
A basket before her.
A man on a phone fills the gap
Like all of the gaps
Red, white, black
The conversation keeps moving
Keeps walking.



All Washed Up

I search the high tide line,
for fragments of reasons.
Oily kelp kicked
to expose explanations.

black flies rise in hordes to whisper
‘He made a mistake.
You’re not discarded,
as barnacle ballast,
on a bloated orange buoy,
all washed up,
left waiting, like some old toy.’

Bladder wrack memories
dry in the sun,
scuttled dead jellyfish stink
I’d rather be that anonymous grey
gull, which flies screaming,
high over Mull…

…than raking through love’s rotten remains.



Syllabic Verse

you pass the knife for her to grasp
word’s unsheathed metal tastes sour
as blood on sharpened teeth sound cuts
sinews of a heart once nested
between voice and chest syllables
spoken now squeal as blackboard nails
verbs that pierce her body shattered
glass night detritus blown around
deafened ears that cannot will not
hear betrayal shouted salted tears
petrify Lot’s wife dared look back.



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  1. Lovely Sue, great to see you here too 🙂 Maire x

  2. Fabulous work here, Sue…Breathtaking…, BARBARA

  3. Mari Maxwell says:

    Just awesome Sue! Pure bliss and gold.

  4. I love that image of ‘raking through love’s rotten remains’ – wonderfully displeasant! 🙂

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