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Best of Irish Poetry 2009
Best of Irish Poetry 2010

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KELLY CREIGHTON

 

 

Kelly CreightonKelly Creighton is the author of The Bones of It (Liberties Press). She was runner-up for the Michael McLaverty Award, and shortlisted for the inaugural Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing, Fish Short Story Prize, Cuirt New Writing Prize for fiction and highly commended for the Gregory O'Donoghue Poetry Prize. She is published in the Stinging Fly, Cyphers, the Honest Ulsterman and other journals. Kelly founded and edits of The Incubator literary journal which showcases the contemporary Irish short story.

 

 

 

A Stay in North Carolina

‘Plane Exhaust Kills More People Than Plane Crashes

Toxic pollutants kill at least ten thousand annually, study says.’

National Geographic News, October 10, 2010

 

 

Ribbons of exhaust fumes crisscross—two planes

miles apart, one goes south, yours starts over.

You go by rental to the town where memories stall

on the bridge of your nose; gas gurgling in the tank

this metal shell of sedan body-pops around you.

The courthouse hasn’t aged one day

no one witnesses the feather that seethes

from a smoking gun, nor your shoulder’s quiver

waxen valley and the dead flesh in it.

There are four bibles, you were told

in case the jurors needed them.

At the jailhouse you taste the iron of your own heart

brush your hair till you are sat on a nest of golden needles.

By how you will hold your head, he will know

you’ve never felt a thing. A handwritten message

snuck in your bag, you’ll hold against the window

should he look your way, fists in bunches

like harbour seals.

He is being taken to a room with more sweets

and breads than one man can manage.

They keep you updated.

You picture the boy him swallowing niceties like soda

even he has his own version of before

the bounce of the ball, length of the court.

If he shows you, you will show him—I forgive you.

Your name, in case your face means nothing.

They grant him a stay, bring him back to his now.

You shred soft paper inside your bag

let it render inside your mouth.

A dog twists on the lot, backside ripe with fleas

his skull, broad as July daylight.

A UV-lit, cloud-hid sun, you look down

from an aeroplane window

the universe spins a basketball on his finger

vacationers rotate like seasons.

 

 

 

©2016 Kelly Creighton

 

 

Author Links

 

Kelly Creighton home page

Kelly Creighton poems in the Honest Ulsterman

The Incubator

 

 

 

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