Marian Kilcoyne – Five Poems

Image116Marian Kilcoyne is an Irish writer based on the West coast of Ireland. She has been published or is forthcoming at Poetry Salzburg Review, Crannog, Quiddity, Apalachee Review, amongst others.

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Trackers

Once over many times she thinks about
fingerprints and the hints they leave on
the map of her being: that time he broke in
thrashing every corner of her bespoke bedroom
scattering books and letters in a confetti deluge
of hate, pawing through lingerie and lace- the secret
things of the swift feminine.
Fastening his laser drug hyped eyes on the bed
where she did not lie-whipping linen in foaming
fury. Later good men came and it started all over
again: dusting, speckling, lifting whorls-knowing
when they left she would sweep up the imaginings
of letters, lace and dignity- and burn them all.
The fingerprints on her skin are hints too, however brief
or incomplete, localised or imagined. These she could lift
off with thin blade, preserve and graft onto a canvas in a
crazy totemic mosaic: flakes of heady promise- flighty
as gold leaf. Small hints on the map of her being.

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Milan I

Leaning into Leonardo
I am sure the early sun has
saved me with balmy Italian
sutures; never more alive.
I rest and watch the women with
their satiny blue, ice pink parasols
synchronise and elide.
Besotted, by their poise, I am rendered
unkempt in some way, as they trail
their guide; wispy giggles escaping
carmine velvet lips.
Their feet, sweeten the ground, and as
I watch it sway and break, the stray in
me wants to follow them, as if by
some osmotic shift, I will develop a
shy smile or fluttered eye layering or
even,
the butterfly
wings of
a
Japanese Woman.

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Sionnach Rua*

This brittle November night drawn taut
with winter concussion, I scope the garden
fretful for events. Brain cradling sepals fall
low as two eyes, hard shiny and sloe diamond
pin me to the universal, the actual- the now.
I grab your eyes- you seize mine and sidle
into my kitchen sniffing my fare, perusing
my open notebook, marvelling at my pretensions
curioing my sleeping children. You pad on soufflé
paws, the genetic imperative of fear and slouch
rising in the blood and then I know- you visit often
friend in the dark: O but you are my one recurring
vision and I thought this home and land, this habitat
was mine alone – the carelessness of the bipedal
hominid slack with casual hubris.

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*In the Irish language ‘Red Fox’

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November

Tonight
I will blaspheme
The moon
As though it were
Some sacred
Thing and
Then
Challenge it
To a duel with
Nervy sabre
Because it shines
Too bright
And I am not
Ready to
Be lone
Again.

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Lashed To the Bow

Any five in the morning is stirring
at Killadoon but this August fourth, fog
and sea mist vetch, costuming a distrait
shroud banning costal vista
calming oceanic pelt.

This then is what will break you: the beauty
or the kernel of pity within it,
or the chasmic solitude-
or the stylish brutality
of a no that hunted a yes,
or a mind so damned
to spit on reason, or
a lash of queenly sea spume
hissing at the door

Any five in the morning here, you might
whore your soul for the surety of the shore
for the whim of the wave or the acumen of the
ocean; barter your human flesh, exorcise the rage
in the gore,
for peace.

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