Roots
She now stares back
as I gently massage
with my ring finger,
a serum into the bags
of plum that
encircle my eyes.
I see her sadness
that she was not there
or is it my own,
at her lack of care,
her severed ties
the washing of hands?
I hear her voice
the haunting echoes
of disenchantment.
She found solace
on the washing line,
in jabbing pegs on silent arms
and compliant waistbands.
Stared into the blue,
the storm clouds rolling in,
a heron's feathers
a darkened sky.
She watched the clothes dance
under a malevolence.
Thunder in her cracked heart,
her hands picked at, like carrion
on the roadside of her despair.
Lorraine Carey is an Irish poet and
artist originally from Donegal now living in Co. Kerry. Her poetry has featured
in the following : Picaroon, Atrium, Sixteen, The Honest Ulsterman, Vine
Leaves, The Galway Review, Proletarian, Olentangy Review, The Blue Nib, Quail
Bell, Live Encounters, ROPES, Launchpad and Poethead among others. Her debut
poetry collection, From Doll House Windows is published by Revival Press. www.limerickwriterscentre.com
Tags:
Poetry