On Being Left

When you’re not here,
milk turns sour in the fridge,
the toaster burns the last piece
of bread deliberately,
the phone is struck dumb,
and the postman dies
on his way to the house.

Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses,
the minister and the parish priest,
the Avon lady and the Amway man
gang outside my door
to lambast my blasted soul.
Even Batman couldn’t save me.

Terrorists and murderers,
clampers and tax inspectors
crowd the backyard,
pounding on locked windows,
yelling my secrets at the top of their voices
for the benefit of eavesdropping neighbours;
my criminal sins and sinful crimes
are a surprise to no one.

In the cowering dumb dark inside,
I hug your scent from cold sheets;
I reach for Cúchulainn’s hurley
under the battlefurious
lumpy mattress.

Tréigthe

Tréigthe

Nuair a bhíonn tú as baile
géaraíonn bainne úr sa chuisneoir,
dónn tósta uaidh féin,
balbhaíonn an guthán
is cailltear fear an phoist
ar a shlí chun an tí.

Cruinníonn Mormanaigh is Finnéithe Jehovah,
an minister is an sagart paróiste,
bean Avon is fear Amway
le chéile ar lic an dorais
chun m’anam damanta a dhamnú.
Ní fhéadfadh Batman mé a shlánú.

Plódaíonn sceimhlitheoirí is murdaróirí,
maoir tráchta is cigirí cánach sa chlós
ag pleancadh ar an bhfuinneog iata,
ag sceitheadh mo rún os ard
leis na comharsain chúiléistitheacha;
ní chuireann mo pheacaí coiriúla
ná mo choireanna peacúla
aon iontas ar éinne.

Sa doircheacht mheata bhalbh istigh
fáiscim do chumhracht
as bráillín fhuar,
cuardaím camán Chúchulainn
fén dtocht riastrach
cnapánach.