Hell, love
so apparently jack
has split up with aisling.
she says he’s inhibiting
her freedom (he says),
and it’s been a shock of course
to all of us, not just
to him – mostly
we liked her; she was funny
and cruel and willing
to lend cigarettes. chrysty especially
is surprised by her daring –
declares that at 30
you’re supposed to just settle
and try be with
whomsoever you’re with.
she can be
quite brutal sometimes,
and I like it,
but I hope she’s not getting
ideas. I like her more
than I ever liked aisling – just hell, I love
her, and need her
to stay. like the difference
between flowers
in someone else’s garden
and the potatoes you grow
in your own.

They float
they float – it’s amazing
and there doesn’t seem any
intention. they just go
up and go upward;
muscles moving only
to get airborne –
then they’re up, shifting
on the breeze
easily, like ash over
an ember. seagulls.
I watch from my balcony, looking
at the river; city birds,
these carrion birds,
these scavengers. and flight –
what an idea!
to be the centre
and know you’re in
the centre,
seeing the city
as it drops beneath you,
descending
like an elevator
you didn’t catch.

The socialite
winedrunk on the balcony,
on a late night video call
with a couple friends
I haven’t seen
lately, and against whom I can’t
pace my drinks.
I shout at the street
while they take in my theatrics.
I talk over people, chase points,
seed witticisms and hurry them
like a bad gardener
banging the side
of a pot. such anxiety
to ruin a party, bad
grace and fingers
trailing through my gravy
boats.
this unnatural isolation –
some company and I’m puppy
excited. throwing jokes like stones
at water. insults I’ve forgotten
will land.