Thread

Where was God that night I balanced
on the Suir’s edge—my children asleep

in the back seat of a yellow Cortina.
I stood on the railing, slipped off my shoes,

my grey coat, cried to the sickle moon.
Mid-November, dark as bruised blackberries,

I could smell the oil and rotting wood
of boats tied up on the quay, smoke

from factories, smog catching
the glow of Gracedieu.

Was His hand
that small cloud

holding me by a thread?

Mary Howlett lives in Waterford, Ireland. Her poems have been published in Southword, The Honest Ulsterman, Waxed Lemon, Drawn to the Light Press, Poem Alone, Steel Jackdaw, Swerve Magazine, Poetry Bus 12, The Get Real, Frogmore Papers, and elsewhere. Her poetry was highly commended in the Cathal Buí and 12th Bangor competitions.