Gym Poem #3
As I stretch my arms up over my head
the sensors in my back adjust my stance.
On the wall in front of me, the chart of muscles
shows the groupings I use to balance.
a pair of vast wing-like muscles
splayed across the back as though
we’re simply featherless bipeds,
our bird-like nature hidden, under our skin.
Postcards From Home
It’s harder to be the one left behind, gaps left
where your friend or sister used to stand.
Gaps you can’t walk into, or brush past
without displacing one more speck of them,
to be vacuumed up on a Friday morning.
Until not one iota of the one you love,
the one who left, remains in the spaces
you fought over (the remote control,
the TV chair, the downstairs toilet,
the stool up at the bar next to the taps),
until you can’t see the spaces you should
be stepping around, and you can’t help but
step right on the spot where Catríona
used to wait for a pint of Heineken, and say
have you heard from Catríona lately, strange
name on your tongue, distant as though
you have changed channels, are watching
a different soap now.