THE LONG ACRE

(for J)

in Covent Garden you dress our oysters
with lime and hot sauce then, pouring wine,
tell me of the time you bought a rope
& carried it home in a bag.

so we talk about how small fears catch fire.
like the fear this restaurant’s soft candlelight
might once have flared, or the fear of mirrors
in one’s house; reflecting the sorrowed bulk
of a man crouched & shaking under chandelier.

watching your fingers curl around the glass stem here
i know how surely they could have worked a noose –
back in that lonely house among all the phoney versions
of yourself heard pleading from room to room
like a Greek chorus hoarse with recitation.

on Long Acre, your daughter asleep in the pram,
we stop to hear a busker remind himself of the key
best suited to his song. and then you move

your neck as if to show it to the sun, asking
am i alive? if so, how much of me survived?

all of it. all you are. all your daughter will become.

Eugene O’Hare was born in Ireland. His poems have appeared in Stand, Causeway, and others. His plays are published by Methuen Drama. Read more of him here.