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.