Three Poems by Anne Comerford

One for Sorrow

Hung over
he would regularly
stagger into the yard
carrying the old shotgun

she would clear up
the mess
of blood and black feathers
from beneath the clothesline
where the screeching birds
had gathered

On the day
he pointed the gun
at her
there was just one magpie
in the garden.


Through my quiet tears
I watch distorted shadows
on the warm wall
where you sit

I tiptoe around you
careful not to mention
or talk about
or appear upset
or love too much

I cannot reach you
and cannot climb this wall
so I stand back
try to remember who I am
and watch the shadows lengthen.

Feet of a Dancer

He could never resist
a good beat.
It was his skillful movements
his dancing feet
that first caught her eye
seventeen years ago

these days
it takes very little
to get him going
a quick dart
thrown across the table
can be enough
to set him off

he'll swing her
around and around
before letting her fall
into a dizzy heap
in the corner of the kitchen
his fist never missing
as he punches out
the beat
his dancing feet
digging into her back
quick-steps to her soul

the music stops
the dance is over
she picks herself up

it was his dancing feet
that first caught her eye
how many years ago?


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