Aisling

 I was making my way home late one night
this summer, when I staggered
into a snow drift.


Her eyes spoke of a sloe-year,
her mouth a year of haws.


Was she Aurora, or the goddess Flora,
Artemidora, or Venus bright,
or Anorexia, who left
a lemon stain on my flannel sheet?

It's all much of a muchness.


In Belfast's Royal Victoria Hospital
a kidney machine
supports the latest hunger-striker
to have called off his fast, a saline
drip into his bag of brine.


A lick and a promise.
 Cuckoo spittle.

I hand my sample to Doctor Maw.

She gives me back a confident All Clear.

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