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You bring me to your southern hills
where growing wheat is golding at the tips and fields are edged with silver coves called Myrtleville, Rocky Bay, Nohoval. The ocean a blue-blue wink in the distance. Your hand rock-firm around mine. The sun heats up the courtyard of the inn at Robert’s Cove, where my namesake roses hang as dry as paper. I touch the cooked pink of them, my paper names. Bread breaks open below your knife to its white soul. Glasses of dark wine pulse through me and still I’m thirsty, as if I licked the salty undersides of little boats anchored in the bay. They turn like clocks above their restraining ropes, hitched to the hidden seabed. After eating, you raise the bay’s tarnished cup to my lips. I drink from it.
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Roisin KellyRoisin Kelly is an Irish poet who was born in Belfast and raised in Co. Leitrim. After a year on a remote island, and an MA in Writing at the National University of Ireland, Galway, she found her way to Cork City where she currently lives and writes. Her poems have appeared in Poetry Chicago, The Stinging Fly, The Timberline Review, The Irish Literary Review, Synaesthesia, Aesthetica, The Penny Dreadful, Bare Fiction, The Baltimore Review, Banshee, Hallelujah for 50ft Women: Poems about Women's Relationship to their Bodies (Bloodaxe 2015) and Best New British and Irish Poets (Eyewear 2016). More work is forthcoming in The Butcher's Dog. |
