Wet Moss
by
Clíodhna Bhreathnach
Vinegary maid, chalk on the back
of the loser, neighbours sprinkle me
with salt to preserve me till Spring.
Fuck. My writing’s so embarrassing.
A sick fern in the still air,
I lurch from grass to give up
my wisps to the clouds, & the NOs drop
down like white bird shits blot
the gravel. Give me rain & sun!
I forget my shape in a choke of weeds.
The editor’s smug, has a different view;
I mute him hotly. My dreams flash blue:
on the horse’s bone back I’m dragged
through briar & twigs as I shout HELP!
HELP! I’M GOING TO SNAP MY NECK!
Then we leap into lake, hit rock, lie wrecked.
Wet Moss
by
Clíodhna Bhreathnach
Vinegary maid, chalk on the back
of the loser, neighbours sprinkle me
with salt to preserve me till Spring.
Fuck. My writing’s so embarrassing.
A sick fern in the still air,
I lurch from grass to give up
my wisps to the clouds, & the NOs drop
down like white bird shits blot
the gravel. Give me rain & sun!
I forget my shape in a choke of weeds.
The editor’s smug, has a different view;
I mute him hotly. My dreams flash blue:
on the horse’s bone back I’m dragged
through briar & twigs as I shout HELP!
HELP! I’M GOING TO SNAP MY NECK!
Then we leap into lake, hit rock, lie wrecked.
Clíodhna Bhreatnach is from Waterford. Her poems have appeared in Channel Magazine, The Common Breath, Silver Apples, and Tir na nÓg Magazine. She was also shortlisted for the Fish Publishing Lockdown Prize