Mo Cuishle
I was born with the taste of her in my mouth.
We met amidst a bar brawl in old Dublin.
In the dawns gray light,
gutters would drain out
with beer, spew and blood.
At first knock, we knew each other.
She scratched me hard,
I mouthed her blood-bruised lips.
Later, tongues turned compliant,
as tender as sea anemone fronds.
Daybreak still found us
drinking from the pink froth
of our unquenched souls.
Blood of my blood.
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