Wednesday, 16 January 2019


by Irene Cunningham

How many mothers make a day
for themselves
create space
poetry from battles
and bottle the blood?

I have vintage years 
in recesses
stacked against plain plonk.

Capsules of me donated daily
dispensed with stress
and forgetfulness
dark like beads
of death.

So when my day comes
crack open my skull
feel the suction
of fresh kill
slap it on a slab
slice sensible cuts
with intelligent hardware –
a cuisine challenge.

Marinade my thoughts
barbecue scattered dreams
pull away the gristle 
and fry my age-old brain
with herby garlic mushroom;
I am nothing
if not useful.

* * * * *

Irene Cunningham’s recent publications: In Between Hangovers, Picaroon, South Bank Poetry, I am not a Silent Poet, Former Cactus, Riggwelter, The Lake, Shoreline of Infinity, Blue Nib. She thinks about the outside world but isn’t often there. One of her poems published this year has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Her website is

No comments:

Post a Comment