Days where you know it will be sunny all day
keep coming to mind; unmoving frost blue
and the reach of trees.
I think of pottery
& how faience is such a nice word,
a subtle bend in the middle of it,
sounds like it could mean petal or tongue:
nothing that might show its history
in filigree patterns. I guess this is all
an attempted flourish, really, trying
to live well in greyness.
You feel the mud pressed around you
sometimes in this half-basement of a
house, we seem to emerge from the
Blend the little handful of
dark stars, beautiful and time lapsed
into the shape of implosion.
Pour out and pause:
refrain from thinking of their flecks
as a galaxy, you have done enough harm.
Indigo hearts trailing a fine hesitation,
these sad insides.
You couldn’t paint it
but for a lip.
Alicia Byrne Keane is a PhD student working on an Irish Research Council-funded thesis in translated literature at Trinity College Dublin. Alicia’s Pushcart Prize-nominated poetry has been published in The Moth, The Colorado Review, The Cardiff Review, The Berkeley Poetry Review, Banshee, Abridged, and the Honest Ulsterman.