Poetry

Thumbs pressed together at his breast,  fingertips a tingle or two apart, lips a soft horizon of grief, eyes absorbed 

The water will be gentle on your hair, or maybe apple blossom if the season is right, or a handful of paper snowflakes, bubbles or just words, sung as a candle burns, scented with honey and pine.

Tears at evening prayers – they weren’t mine: hot and strange as the skin I slipped outside  looking on at you looking on at grief staged with crystal tumblers waiting for whisky and anecdotes told by White Rabbits.

IRISH POET, ACADEMIC, AND JOURNALIST, OISÍN BREEN’S DEBUT, ‘FLOWERS, ALL SORTS IN BLOSSOM …’ WAS RELEASED MAR., 2020. BREEN IS PUBLISHED IN 69 JOURNALS, INCLUDING IN ABOUT PLACE, DOOR IS A JAR, NORTHERN GRAVY, NORTH DAKOTA QUARTERLY, BOOKS IRELAND, THE SEATTLE STAR, LA PICCIOLETTA BARCA, RESERVOIR ROAD, AND DREICH.

I, too, have been laid waste. (That’s the etymological root of devastation in Latin.

in-between two tall pylons  forget all that came before swept under the sofa— two morning thoughts on monogamy for a provocation into  ‘rusheth rather than runneth’.