CW: Domestic violence
After Gerard Dillon’s painting with the same title
For Shelley Tracey
My mustard walls are planked, angled and concertinaed like my accordion. My mood reflects the Connemara landscape and I have struggled to read the music score today. She is all picture and no sound. The line caught fish are fresh, glass eyes gleaming. They are ready to be gutted for lunch.
I squeeze my folded arms tight, a ledge on which I bolster my breasts, hold myself in, press down into the pit of my stomach suppressing the crashing waves. I know my sore eye is shaded the colour of heather and fish scales. The damp is creeping up the walls even though the range is lit day and night. The poker might right the score.
Having cleaned my paws and licked my white fur, I’ve curled to dream of field mice, on the best chair. I have stared at the table frequently. The two-legs have stared at each like the hawk and the hare. But I don’t care as long as I get fish-heads, raw, griddled or fried, served on a porcelain plate.
Gaynor Kane is a Northern Irish poet from Belfast. She has two poetry pamphlets, and a full collection, from Hedgehog Poetry Press, they are Circling the Sun, Memory Forest, and Venus in Pink Marble (2018, 2019 and September 2020 respectively). Follow her on Twitter @gaynorkane or read more at www.gaynorkane.com.