Seventeen in Quarantine. A poem by Molly Twomey

Mike, since ya can’t have naggins in a field,
tonight, we’re all teenage lads in a gaff.

Mam swaps her tea for shots of Mickey Finns,
a cheesy card and sloppy kiss for a punch
in the arm and a happy birthday kiiiid.

Dad learns words like daycent, class, what’s the craic,
that R&B no longer means the Beatles.
In a beanie hat, he points to the ceiling and shouts HP lad.

Paul stands with one hand in his waistband,
says there’s feck all in the fridge
and sticks his finger in your icing.

So, blow out the candles and I’ll shove
your face in the cake but someone will let slip
that they love you and all our voices will break.


Molly Twomey holds an MA in Creative Writing from UCC and has work upcoming or published by Poetry Ireland, Banshee,, the Irish Times, Crannóg and elsewhere. She won the Padraic Colum Poetry Prize in 2019, the New Voices section in The Voices of War International Poetry Competition in UCD and came second in the Waterford Poetry Prize in 2019

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