Alex Cregan

An incomplete list on TDOR

Half broken box cutter held against hard wax,
Crackling under pressure, candle crumbs in hand.
Childhood spent talking down
And being talked down to, spent swinging around
A merry go round
Of questions, of old masks on new faces,
Playing pretend until it wasn't quite playing.
Sandalwood essential oil,
Pressed between finger and thumb
Massaged into the candlestick, hands finding the grooves,
The shaky broken ogham. Attempted old faiths
To replace the others failing
Sisters and brothers falling at the hands
Of bullets or cops or nooses or drugs or partners or parents –
Enough. Taste of blood in the mouth.
Bitter acetone. Previous attempts to replace
Bone with spirit, spirit with absence. Fleeing to the comfort of statistics in classes.
Stinging oil pressed against lips
A self imploding litany –
‘Holy is the pain, holy is the body. Holy is the flesh that fears its memory.
Holy is the dust, the rust, the fungal rot, biochemistry. Holy is monotony,
Being around long enough to be bored of mundanity. Holy is
Community. Holy are the people and places to hold
The crackling jaw, the bluejay’s cry. I…’
Word lost, tears still left to cry. A day spent alone
With numbers. Four grey walls, a home
That won’t hold you. Cumbersome and raw.