POETRY

Stains

In a small, dark pub,
full of corners, there sits a white man.
He laughs through his darkened teeth,
and red wine stained lips.

Desperate for the crumbs of 
unfeeling fleeting glances, that
the others throw towards the 
colourful cracks he quips out. 
The ones about women, 
the sizes, their scores, her curves,
and he explains who should,
and who shouldn’t be on Irish soil.
His musings f
	a
		 l
			l, 
				slowly, but not
			so much as 
		to be able 
to catch
        them. So
they land, and 
begin to seep through,
the dirty, over grown hair, of indifferent ears.
Of men who’s wives left them long ago. 
Because every other sound, sits in a vacuum,
of everything they never said,
but they don’t quite know 
if they disagree anyway.

And so, each night, they convene,
in their reserved dotted dispersion 
steeped in mahogany wood, and 
worn leather stools. With images
repeating on the backs of their eyelids.
Poring drink, into the holes
that they cannot fill. 

Maybe this will be the death of depravity. 
Though, red wine cannot help but stain. 

So from behind the bar, I watch 
the purple filth leave this man’s mouth, 
as it taints everything it touches. 

We wear collars;

An empty locket sits around my neck.
Heavier than one should be.
Tighter than I asked it to be.
I cannot loosen it. 

It’s presence, an assault.
But I am told I wear it well. 
I am so strong to carry it as I do.
It’s graceful, it is fierce.

I claw and I pull, but I cannot take it off.
It has no spikes or blades, just the weight of its touch.
It does not burn my skin, but whispers 
the unwelcome memory, sitting there relentlessly still.

Every time I swallow, 
every time I think about it.
Every time I place my head on the same pillow.
Singing the dreamlike tune, please stop.

Too small to see, but I feel it always.
This chain, tied to that night. 
This pendent of penetration,
empty for the love that might have filled it.