in air thick with rain’s threat, i pull
words up like sick on string. hiding
in the spaces between sounds, ammo
under my tongue. alms of leaves
stream overhead, shivering
in near-moist air and listening
in whispers. my face burns as if
the sun had smacked me, but
it's not come for days. you used to
pray by your father's grave, and say it was
for his sake, not for yours.
you'd say the same when my blood
burst in blue fireworks
under skin. say i'd learn.
that i bruise too easily anyway.
i grip a thin wrist as quiet
comes with rain that raises us
from a dead man's favourite bench. i pry
a flower from its bed. take it
home to a glass urn where i
water it, and watch it die.
Originally published by Poets Choice 2021
Helen Nancy Meneilly is an Irish poet and MA student. Recently highly commended in the 2022 Hastings Book Festival Poetry Competition, her work has also appeared in The Shore, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Gyroscope Review, The Metaworker, and others.