Monotonoir. A poem by Meg Mulcahy

This poem looks like
something I’d be looking at in a museum
waiting for you to come over
and cock heads with me

Somewhere in Idaho, a field
of perfectly decent onions
is waiting to be buried untouched
here, one mechanical alligator
roams the attic, clanging thighs
headbutting lanky beams
the pangs of a house settling

Even on nights like this
in its ink blot stills and swallowed
soft-serve breath, maps unfold
you can love someone
with a ripe chest, whole
and have it not be enough


Meg is a writer based in Dublin in dire need of a haircut.

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