Roisin Ní Neachtain

Elements Roisin Ní Neachtain

ellipse

ya know it's all ok until it isn't

you bob along a rubber duck in the bathtub of the world waiting for something you can't control

a captive in the ignorance of silence waiting for that happy ending to begin

you don't hear the waves slapping the rocks you don't even know the rocks are there

the tide carries you and you just breathe in and out waiting

until you forget what it is you’re waiting for

and closing your eyes surrender to the homelessness of what you think is the open sea

but is only the polluted porcelainbound pond of rich men’s dreams

RC deWinter

Vigil

Nothing matters now save his eight pound slip of flesh warming behind perspex,

every bloodshot palpation of his ruby heart fastened in its nook of mothwing,

its tent of cotton-curtain skin. Every spark that lifts in the dark,

every misfire of every synapse inside every soft, curling wire

in his head, every womb-sluiced follicle on every inch of his tiny body

pinkening on the tube bed and every red beep of the insomniac machine

that jangles the hum in my bones, the hum of grief, the murmur-hum of love.

Jeremy Haworth

Coming Home

The sky, bright as your baby-blue eyes. Busy nurses fustle, utter the hospital's black and white tiled-effect policy, pass you over at the hospital door.

The sweet milkiness, bundled newness of you, strapped into your bucket seat in the back. My neck in an owl-twist over my right shoulder, inspecting the rosiness of your cheeks, tweaking the temperature dial, as your father drives with more than the usual dose of caution.

Framed by the windscreen, we glide round the bend. The MacGillycuddy Reeks, bathed in blue light, peak and dip like a screen-monitored heartbeat.

The baby-fingered exquisite perfection of the moment, heart-swelling glory of it all.

Faye Boland