This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Michael Greavy Two Poems
Throwing Your Voice

Throw, and in the letting go
you are three fishermen:

one unspooling, paying line; 
another, older, letting it run...

Watch your breath careen,
moth across the car park,

a room dim-lit like this –
dark glass somewhere else –

and find yourself behind the ear,
the lobe, the listened for:

wide-eyed, downstream,
a child again –

sitting on the bait box,
hands cupped for the catch.


Red

The night before your mother’s death
you write to packed pews in your head:
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