Poem Of The Week | Old Haunts By Eimear McKeown
We spoke of the supernatural.
Hands around hot coffee cups, we swapped stories
of rented houses with decaying walls but a concrete presence.
Of snarling black dogs in dreams and forbidden Ouija
boards. I had never been on the edge of my seat before.
Your thin fingers grazed my knee but I didn’t jump.
That was the beginning.
Too broke for a break we holidayed in cafés.
One hundred mugs, cups and glasses drained by us,
stained by my cheap kiss-proof lipstick.
But you’ve carved up this town now.
I’ll never see your frame bent over a book on my streets.
Do you roam your roads like a ghost?
‘Go home!’, ‘Go home!’ I shout.
But you’re gone.
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