By Ailbhe Darcy
After Alice Maher’s “Andromeda”
Kind bolus of hair, we who have shoehorned ourselves
into dream dresses, spooled Louis heels down fettled steps
to grooms, or steeled ourselves in suits for the clinch, counter-
signatures gripped in fists; we who have lain on carpets
beside infants, parched for clear shocks of blue, feculence
collecting in our drains, do not forsake us. Domesticated chyme,
damp hank slap-lavished on pillow, pray for us.
We who have fetched home inventing storage solutions,
breaking up space, who feed you and braid you,
scratch compact plans on compact days, give us thole to bear up.
We’d bindle paradise and stow it where the dust bunnies futz,
given leave. Swindle us, please, some less dear salvation.
Croon of nootropics, caffeine, tacit utopia, game feel.
How the way we live days is the means to live lives. Chevy
us through. Tonight, in the kitchens where we make obstacles
of each other, we’ll fiddle with the knobs of electrical cookers.
Hobs simulacra for hobs, pixelating heat, steam, spall;
tumble from above as if from nowhere.
Let one of us fright, dash a palm too near. Let flesh char,
hair. Give us our brimstone. Be in our waking.