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P O E T R Y
by Marian Kilcoyne
- i. m. Rosemary Garvey, d. August 17th, 2011
August-bitter morning coffee
slops over wrist, legs and feet,
at the sudden ballistic whack of
a bird on glass.
Pain elapsed and tigering to where it lies on
cool stone, I am beaten by a year old pup
whose mouth is soft for pheasant.
She holds the thrush smoothly,
eyes me gamely, while I hush staccato
breaths: we both know the score.
Straining every muscle I pounce,
forcing her jaw in a flick-knife
second: warm bird, neck broken
pillows to the ground.
Speckled feathers sweet head,
were no matches for sheet glass illusion,
the marvel of avian construct sabotaged
by its own strange delicacy.
Republic of Ireland