With the long strides of the healthy-spined my sister
struts the streets, each step she takes: a chance
to feel dance ripple without effort through her
every muscle. She’s a flesh and blood incendiary.
To strangers there’s no knowing whether a devil
or angel has primed her. What deficit of love
has led to this? some wonder. She wields a sabre
(though no blade is sharper than the edge
of her silhouette) as if she’s looking for a boy
to decapitate or for a man crueler than her,
impervious to the psychic shrapnel of her poise
and contempt, her pity for those moved by her
beauty alone. Beauty she feels she did nothing
to earn. She passes a sullen-faced man brooding
as if her stilled-eyed smile was rough fingers bruising
the peach surface of his soul. On her left cheek,
etched in a florid alphabet I cannot read, is a poem
she mutters to the sky in a tongue I cannot understand.
A scar she razored herself on her other cheek fails
to lessen the covetous glances of the crowd.
I’m twelve years old. Sometimes she holds my hand
as if she’s leading me out, and not into all this.
struts the streets, each step she takes: a chance
to feel dance ripple without effort through her
every muscle. She’s a flesh and blood incendiary.
To strangers there’s no knowing whether a devil
or angel has primed her. What deficit of love
has led to this? some wonder. She wields a sabre
(though no blade is sharper than the edge
of her silhouette) as if she’s looking for a boy
to decapitate or for a man crueler than her,
impervious to the psychic shrapnel of her poise
and contempt, her pity for those moved by her
beauty alone. Beauty she feels she did nothing
to earn. She passes a sullen-faced man brooding
as if her stilled-eyed smile was rough fingers bruising
the peach surface of his soul. On her left cheek,
etched in a florid alphabet I cannot read, is a poem
she mutters to the sky in a tongue I cannot understand.
A scar she razored herself on her other cheek fails
to lessen the covetous glances of the crowd.
I’m twelve years old. Sometimes she holds my hand
as if she’s leading me out, and not into all this.
|
Patrick Cotter lives in Cork City, Ireland. He is editor of the literary journal Southword. His latest book is Quality Control at the Mircle Factory (Dedalus 2025) More at www.patrickcotter.ie
|
