Poem of the Week |32| The Three Dawns: Leaving Cert Night

The Three Dawns: Leaving Cert Night
Empathy Grace’s ears are ringin,
there’s mascara and mucus on her shoulder
the vomit in her hair’s not hers
there’s no taxis and its freezin,
but sight of the bin lorry
sends an independence dance down her spine
the birds sing.

Coco’s empty nagan is still standing by the bus stop,
that prick,
the spilled vodka wasn’t missed.

Astronomical nautical and civil dawn,
add blue to orange
fatigue catches her eye
as she tries to compose a memory of the night
her legs work to rule
streets steps stairs and doors pass in a yawn,
the bed spins a little before dissolving.