SIBYL WITH GUITAR
(c) Medbh McGuckian

When I look back I don’t know
If there have been any nights,
Even any difference in light. I don’t
Hear the city the way I used to,

When there was something in me
That could catch fire, like long ago
Waiting for a kiss. The moon hides
In the throat of the tone of the yellow

Bell, I am willing that the seasons
Wear me out. Dead-eyed angel,
Lying on her side, white in the daring
Dark, her death is the smallest sadness

She was able to cause. A folding
Of hands, as if every place knows
About all the others: the patience
Of a summer in the rebellion 

Of her skin; a milky rush
In the curves of a riverbank.

_____________________________
 Published in Vallum 7:1, “Futures,” 2009.