than a little sad
her star was rising when his hands fell
taken in a stone broke past.
no consent sought or given
his ship came home,
in a single night
fifty thousand copies sold.
Now the sallow skin
post box grin
wet parted nonagenarian lips
beside my blonde of blondes, too sweet
an opportunity to miss.
Does this woman have no kin, blood
shouting down the dead of night
you harda hearin
the chair’s taken.
No one to spirit her to some quiet
unnamed wooded place
and sweeping away
earth stars and leaf litter
lay her down in the diamond dark
among roots of juniper among roots of cedar.
Clare McCotter’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals including Abridged, Algebra of Owls, Boyne Berries, Crannóg, Cyphers, Envoi, The Galway Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Iota, Moth Magazine, A New Ulster, Revival, The SHOp, The Stinging Fly and The Stony Thursday Book. She also writes haiku, tanka and haibun.