Black Cigarette
by and published in Edition One of Pomegranate
I think I love your bones-
We are sitting in the squalor
of our wasted afternoons.
You are smoking black cigarettes,
cloves and tar from
the ground beneath our feet.
And you have nothing in your hands
but a penknife and an ASBO;
So stay inside and make plans
about days that will never come
and fathers who will never die
and weddings that will never happen-
make velvet dresses with scissors
and gaffer tape,
and sew your mouth shut
so you can stop telling me
you think you love my bones
and my hair and my too small eyes.
Today is not a day for feeling pretty
not that they ever come.
It is a day for fingers in esophagus
clotting vomit and staring in mirrors
in too loose dresses, pulling on the skin
with not enough flesh to make it right.
But you could tell me
that you love my bones
and my hair and my too small eyes
and you love the flesh that hangs around my temple-
And nothing could be braver
than standing naked in the garden
with you
reciting marlowe renaissance lines
which are far too beautiful for our sorry tongues.
My mind is in the gutter,
but I think I love your bones.
Ciara Burke
Ciara Burke is 19 years old, and living in Dublin, Ireland. She’s currently in her third year studying English Media and Cultural Studies at Dun Laoghaire Institute of Art, Design and Technology. She has been writing poetry for about four years but she has never before had anything published, and hopes to pursue writing as a career after she finishes her degree. Her interests involve Photography, Singing and Self-Exploration.