...from
...from Daniel, does it have to have happened if it is true
There is a place in the vagina where the pelvis Given the alchemy of hate and castor oilCan hold a baby to the point of death or asphyxiation Wherein its own orgasm opens it up for the m(other) to climb insideTo be carried through the birth canal into the worldTo ride around inside the hated babeThere is a place due south where no oil is necessaryThere is a place in the heart that has been vaccinated against hopeIn this medicine bag naps the notion, that if need be will kill youFasten it around your neck for safekeepingThere is a place within family, eternally winteryThat dialogues only with death and will have its wayBirthing children to be sick, or not at allThere is a place where mothers can not want childrenThere is a place where children kill mothers, perpetuallyThere is a place in family that drives people to itWhen you are not being driven there, you are at the wheelThere is a place in winter devoid of autumn or springThere is a place where silence is not to beThere is a place inside daylight that has never known it, yet is not night-timeThere is a place where you have met yourself It is the last relationship you want to be inThere is a place where you and I have metThere is a place where you will forsake meThere is a place that I will not go with youThere is a place that you persistently drag me towardThere is a place in you that is murderousDo you know what it is doing When you are not killing someone There is a place where there is no shortage of places
There are more places... //
...Nineteen eighty six bisected lifeInto before she asked me to help her dieAnd the longer half Augered unadulterated furyHaving said no In a vehicle fuelled By the fundament of unwanted responsibilityFor life support systemsPassenger in a three decade no
Rupturing my own to save it — ended hers
There is no way, despite Myriad of attempts toAvoid what is ordained In family mythology... //
...She has eaten porridge from the pot for so longShe has forgotten that she does itHer neighbour, out while she eats, reminds herPot scraping rebounding in the walled gardenMortifyingShe reaffirms her commitment In the liminality of the kitchenThe last ignominious mouthfulSoothed by the moka potHer second favouriteDespite what they tell youThere are favouritesThe porridge pot, hisNow—spoils of divorceHer grandmotherFed her dog in a saucepanHe had the shed to himselfHad himself to himself
He loved that pot... // ...Loneliness is not to be trusted It will insert itself without conscience I meet mine in the fat poets wife His impotence her loss Her scorn is of sisterhood Mine is of adipose craws I am blessed with a man Who lets me have secrets I keep lonely to myself There is a smell from the hearth Of poems tarnished by desperationYielding to fire ...
There are more places... //
...Nineteen eighty six bisected lifeInto before she asked me to help her dieAnd the longer half Augered unadulterated furyHaving said no In a vehicle fuelled By the fundament of unwanted responsibilityFor life support systemsPassenger in a three decade no
Rupturing my own to save it — ended hers
There is no way, despite Myriad of attempts toAvoid what is ordained In family mythology... //
...She has eaten porridge from the pot for so longShe has forgotten that she does itHer neighbour, out while she eats, reminds herPot scraping rebounding in the walled gardenMortifyingShe reaffirms her commitment In the liminality of the kitchenThe last ignominious mouthfulSoothed by the moka potHer second favouriteDespite what they tell youThere are favouritesThe porridge pot, hisNow—spoils of divorceHer grandmotherFed her dog in a saucepanHe had the shed to himselfHad himself to himself
He loved that pot... // ...Loneliness is not to be trusted It will insert itself without conscience I meet mine in the fat poets wife His impotence her loss Her scorn is of sisterhood Mine is of adipose craws I am blessed with a man Who lets me have secrets I keep lonely to myself There is a smell from the hearth Of poems tarnished by desperationYielding to fire ...
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Siobhan Potter works as an artist-writer-psychotherapist in Limerick, Ireland. Her practice documents experience. Siobhan has poetry published in both audio and print. In March 2020, she founded ‘not the time to be silent’, an online Arts response to social distancing. Siobhan was selected for #IrelandPerforms by Culture Ireland.