Signs Of Life

strung out on electrical country cables mid-air
a dead pigeon drooping on the corner post: signs of life

now that the acid is dead I am peering up from the grass
not the drunken kind I could have been had I not been

a crate of frozen berries my red and purple fingertips
crushing up the juice smeared like lipstick

playing womanhood hard again I’m waiting
for a day of buzzcuts and bones if there are stains

for such sickness its colours are sharp like a bladder
cramping all the way up to the oesophagus

green morning dew of the night and wet soil
craving the enamel on my tongue. 

Niamh Haran