He stole the thunder
And took me,
Like that other Irish boy.
Bed full of herbs,
Tangled me up,
And it took weeks
To get the weeds
Out of my hair.

Carrying hashish
In a pouch
Round my neck,
I watched the girls
Working the corner.
And he kept his socks on,
But kissed
My callous feet.

The north wind was
Freezing rain against
My window,
And I stumbled into
As yet undiscovered.
Learning what to keep,
What to discard.
And I would not let him
Dream on my pillow,
Or tell me who I was
Or where I
Could not go.

I stood over his bed
In the frost-lit morning,
Watched dawn breaking
In his golden curls,
Then climbed the stairs
To the lonely blazing street,
And walked away,
Almost dizzy with the breaking,
But fully intact.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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