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.