She is looking recklessly back
into the hard stare of the sun,
which isn’t taking into account
that she is innocent,
not more than nine,
perhaps hasn’t been warned
about what she is doing,
although I think she has been,
and this is a kind of defiance.
She thinks she can out-stare the sun,
and not a cloud in the sky today.
There are many acts
of greater recklessness ahead for her,
one would presume. She is
not more than nine, after all,
and life becomes such a reckless thing
at least every once in a while.
Definitely not double digits yet,
she holds the hard stare of the sun
this July day in Salthill
that’s more than mid-twenties,
and she must have been warned.
I’m sure she has been warned
about what she is doing.
Edward O'Dwyer was born in Limerick, Ireland, in 1984. His poetry has been published in periodicals throughout the world, including 'The Forward Book of Poetry 2015', 'Poetry Ireland Review', and previous editions of 'The Stony Thursday Book'. He has taken part in Poetry Ireland's Introductions and been shortlisted for a Hennessy Award, and has had work nominated by journals for Pushcart, Forward and Best of the Web prizes. His first full collection is 'The Rain on Cruise's Street' (Salmon Poetry, 2014).
My father sexually abused me.
When I got married,
I hyphenated my name.
No one questioned it at the time.
But in the middle of my parents’ late divorce,
everyone wants to know about names.
i was depressed,
and i wanted
to take a
you said you'd join me—
didn't mean i wanted
netflix and chill,
it happened before words came
to tell me how to feel about it
newly connected neurons torn apart
forever firing blanks into the microbiological air