The fire at Notre Dame

When I saw the flames,
I thought of you,
on fire,
in a droned
dried time.

Left rigid in memory,
of a fall;
hard, hot, bothered.

Flamed nestled mornings
light Liffey greens,
aroused ghettos,
punked, still pure,
all that Republican foaming,
all those electro Marxist winks.

When I see the flames;
France – kneecapped,
Paris – in a crawl,
Europe’s disintegration loops
coming apart, rotation upon rotation upon rotation,
the mornings you said my name
and I never answered.

The North

Have you ever seen?
the ice from the air

pock marked
cratered by climate change
one hundred thousand
brittle sinless hearts

I want to die in the North
with my son beside me,
with my daughter singing,
with my wife as a statue
of cold, clear remorse,
because I want to die,
hands broken,
in the cold, cold North.

Burn

The unhealed skin
of the burn
on my left hand
is evidence enough of
a lack of discipline.

It’s meant I’ve found success.

Wore a suit around the art fucks,
wrapped their words in acid white bows,
held a nightly and well-catered séance,
all while holding more contempt,
in a black leather bag,
more than any young man should be allowed carry.

James Dunne lives with his family in Dublin and works in advertising. He loves all things Scandinavian. He started writing poetry in 2018.

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