A Poet Steals my Grandfather’s Skull's image
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A Poet Steals my Grandfather’s Skull

I open my eyes to find myself 

returned. But for the mildewed moon, 

the forest is concealed beneath a callous sky.


I discover what remains of him in a clearing. 

She has exhumed him and taken his skull.

My Grandfather’s ribs lie on the earth, 

a latticework of hoops and stringers —

the bones of a Currach once covered in animal hide,

cured in oak-bark and tar — a hull that ferried him 

through eighty years and now laid bare.


She uses clay to reconstruct his face

in her family’s likeness, making him her lie —

his aquamarine eyes no longer carry the sea, 

his smile no longer his. She whispers her alibi 

into his left ear and a swarm of flies emerges from the other.


I long to steal him back, return him to his grav

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