Issue #19


Alicia Byrne Keane

On the windowsill the bloodlike incandescence of your stem Throws itself across the soil like a signature, sandspit viewed From above, stretching a path of frail commerce to the pot’s Plastic edge. I can never tell if you are wilted or just starting Out, your energy funnelled into a dark globe of becoming. I Wonder about acts of unseen growth, peel adhesive stitches From my skin in the shower the next morning and it doesn’t Really feel like anything. The bruise is a blown bulb, a flung Horseshoe of deposited sand, sideways ball-bearing swoon In the wake of the magnet. It has plunge pools and shallows, A clear yellow eye. Is the anchor appropriately heart shaped Or would it resemble the too-perfect clearness of tiny new Potatoes in turned earth, wooden beads flung to crack into Corners following a severed link. Thread or elastic, the kind Of breakage you wouldn’t easily feel at its joyous dispersal.

Alicia Byrne Keane is a PhD student from Ireland, working on an Irish Research Council-funded PhD study problematizing ‘vagueness’ and translation in the work of Samuel Beckett and Haruki Murakami, at Trinity College Dublin. Alicia’s poems have appeared in The Moth, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Abridged, The Honest Ulsterman, and Entropy.

Twitter: keane_byrne