The jovial are the most lonely,
the chore of smiling in the supermarket,
the wander down the aisles.
I’d rather talk to strangers thank you
I’ve seen this cashier too many times.
I’d rather you not know me.
I walk the old trainline that I used to cycle frantically
Life is slower this year
Death is no longer just behind
I walk the loop around the little island with a friend named for an angel.
We sit and watch the rabbits while we remember the sad mistakes made by older generations
and the breeze gently lifts my skirt above my knees.
I stand in the garden and piss there when I think I won’t be caught.
I allow my hair to knot
I talk openly to the wood pigeons courting, gossiping at the one who’s eager,
confiding in the one who is coy.
The nettle and the milk thistle feel like my blood and body.
Their curt manner hides their medicines
Good for the liver
good for the gut.
They speak to me as older women,
scold me for my waning youth.
I ought to be moving on,
I ought to meet a man.
Instead I walk the paved over trainline
and speak to wood pigeons
lament the ways of history
and
pretend
that I do not miss you.
Sionnachaí 