lithe and taut until you reached up to that fine ivory neck unzipped yourself along the length of your spine turning cotton wool innards inside out ripping seams cutting threads cleaving wires slack tossing your copper horsehair wig to the floor
I wanted no answers from your stuck red gash of a mouth scored into alabaster clay with a slight tilt of my hand and the dull twist of a wrist you whittled the vowels of my name down head bobbing limbs jerking a record jumping
now no one notices when you move without me [End Page 5]
Deirdre Daly is a writer currently living in Dublin. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Normal School, Room Magazine, Crannóg, Level Crossing, and Women’s Studies Quarterly. Her fiction has been published in Word Riot, Alarmist, and various anthologies. She was runner-up in the 2016 Fish Publishing Poetry Prize.