Return

 

It’s me. I’m back

with my eye in a sling

and one broken wing

like a raped angel.

 

With this old-fashioned mouth

full of missing words

(lost en route – used up,

worn out and given away.)

 

With snapshots of

the moon from different angles,

and a string of stray dogs

the length of a highway,

 

with a thing for stray gods:

bruised from falling,

and tattoos of heaven

cut from their skin.

 

I’m a gilded jigsaw

so pick up the pieces,

at least fill in the edges,

but leave the sky – it’s too hard.

 

I’m a yard sale on legs,

some parts haven’t worked for years:

going cheap this rusty heart,

this unwanted gift of love.

 

It’s me. I’m back,

one hand on the door,

one finger on the hair-trigger

smile I kept dry for you.

 

I’d have sent a postcard,

I’d have called,

but the long walk is no place

for instant reminiscences.

 

You make your own rules,

and these were mine:

never look forward, never look back,

keep throwing the stars

 

over your left shoulder

into the eye of the devil,

take what you need,

and leave what you can’t finish…

Clare Kirwan

Barnwood poetry magazine