The orange segments itself
into eyes spilled on my grandmother’s table,
I am counting time on the beads bleating out
onto stained wood.
Flowers wilting in a jar, browned in thumbprints
And papers scattered in word-plates, dirty,
A basin I daily pass
Clocks and skulls and knives and oil
And a swipe of dust, also inheritance.
There never rise flies from the fruit
Here the candles blew and smoke curled into memory,
Where the image soaked in toxins now hangs on a darkened wall
And the light that bleeds out of blinds makes a mirror-hall
Of ancient faces across the cold lunch meat
Prizes all, placed and portioned.
I infuse into the air
And grow still
This too, is legacy.
Pandemia, Season 1:
Spring: dizziness, fervid. (Nothing is so beautiful as) a wire rod, offering bundles to cloud. The
sap grows into bark. Verlescent. Unbecoming new tide, belch up the buds of May. Here a hand
to hold is too much to ask. Open your windows to magnolias ðanol &shortage. (Long and
lovely.) Slip from nests into land opening in grimace. Swallow. Slice. Spread cream, butter,
birdsong. Rip up the hands of the clock and replant, sew them back up like a soldier. (Echoing.)
Wash your feet/hands/self and climb. Don’t stop until you’ve reached heaven. The air is thinner
Seirce Mhac Conghail is a student of English and Irish at Trinity College. They write poetry and prose, and do literary translation. Their work has been published in Dodging the Rain, ODD Magazine, Wondrous Real Magazine, and others.