AM Fagan is a writer from and who lives in County Dublin, Ireland. She has had poetry published in a Trinity College Literary Journal, in an online ezine and out on display in an exhibition. She is a writer of poetry, short fiction, a play and some longer fiction. She has recently completed a Masters in Creative Writing from the University College Dublin where she has achieved a First-Class Honours qualification.

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Slip into the night

Coordinating light in early December
this day shrivels up under a sun
Moon sets out my long evening
the stars summon my eyes
But I look beyond to the unnatural

And I lie awake till the sorry earth opens
I lie still until all of their words are brittle
Broken and bruised in my spoon of might
until I’m no longer behind
The blank half drawn curtains

Dream later then of salted plains
where I am now deft with the clouds
Attached onto the string of a kite
flying through the rough winds
But sailing over the flat ground.

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Standing

an icy, November, Dublin town centre,
we walk by the silver toned buildings along the quays
and see an individual
hunched down over his polystyrene cup,

he’s waiting for the last penny to fill it to the top,
hiding his face from the passers-by who drop in
their two bob’s worth here and there,
coins fill it up and up,

we can see how full it is, nearly,
even though he can’t,
hair all over his face, body contorted into a shape,
that’s not humanly, not natural,

I then stoop to glare- stop to breathe,
can’t trust the truth of this matters that lays before us,
in case of incrimination- perhaps in some loop of despair.
Suspect scam at heart of matter- suspect, suspect, suspect,

but it’s not long to push hair away from the eyes,
not long to stretch the body out and stand it up straight.

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Moonshine face

So there, he always was-
laughing-on that
Moonshine of face,
his, ruddy cheeks,
Raw tomatoes-
never knew then
Flies that bit him,
on them fields-
I only saw, his hands,
tattooed in soft-
subtle scars,
To prove God’s name,
as he then stood a
Splatter of
setting sun,
Assaulted his back,
a shovel, his grip-
But the blood
then spurted,
He dressed in a fever,
tears bloomed-boasting
In his eyes and
coming night,
Drew him into
its arms,
I longed to touch
his faded form,
He was gone,
that next morn,
And I-awakened
-my eyes-to his soul,
Now- gone to
cling heavens nook,
I always, thought
I knew him,
by innocent chuckle,
Of his grin,
I did not-know
him.

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Sunday evening

Only when we’ve watched the film
two or three times, that I see you
Sit by the window, fishtank, lamp
head shiny from the outside moon
Round face furrowed in a deep look
eyes misted as though they are wet

I breathe in this air between us
but, I have a different vision
The lamplight evades my sight
I’m wilting now as if the night
Caresses the tips of my hands

You are the opposite, other, same
we drift, but always linger