The neon digits read [01:37]
when a buzzing hum shakes me
awake, deep as the bass thrum of nightclubs
that once bucked behind my breastbone
like a pulse, the pulse that still beats now
in city backstreets. I find my slow way
down through the dark hall by fingertip,
arms stretched, but stub my toe on
the door. I yowl and fall against the wall,
cursing as I hobble-limp into the kitchen.
Night has cast a spell in this hot, thick
darkness. In the corner, the dishwasher shakes
its pale head, shudders and mutters
in a language I can’t comprehend.
When I slide a finger under the slot,
it flings itself open, the air sudden and hot,
a brawl of scald-water like a shower
of sparks or a swarm of wasps, steam stinging
my skin, searing my eyes, scorching my cheeks
again and again. The dishwasher has become
a wasps’ nest, spitting insects, stinging
and singing, thin wings skinning the suds. I throw
the window open and away they soar, like steam,
like the shared breath of drunken friends blurring
a cloud over their heads, and see how it lifts now,
up into the sky, see how it climbs into the living night.

First Published in Solas Nua (The Stinging Fly Press, 2016)

01:37 atá ag an gclog aláraim
nuair a dhúisíonn drantán mé , crónán
chomh domhain leis an dord
a chnag ar chúl mo chnámh uchta
i gclub oíche tráth, dord a bhuaileann
fós, i gcúlsráideanna na cathrach
i bhfad uaim. Aimsím mo bhealach síos
staighre tríd an dorchadas go mall,
ag bogadh tríd an halla ar bharr na méar,
mo lámha sínte romham. Buailim
ordóg choise ar dhoras na cistine agus titim
in aghaidh an bhalla, ag eascainí
mar a phreabaim isteach ar chéim bhacaí.
Tá geasa droma draíochta caite
ag an oíche, dorchadas tiubh, te
a chaitheann cuma strainséartha
ar an seomra agus gach a bhfuil ann. Sa chúinne,
tá creathán tochta i nglór an mhiasniteora,
a cheann bán á chaitheamh aige ó thaobh
go taobh, é ag cogarnaíl faoina fhiacail i dteanga
nach dtuigim. Nuair a shleamhnaím méar
faoina hanla, preabann sé ar oscailt de gheit,
an t-aer te tobann timpeall orm, chomh beo
le cith drithlí nó scaoth foichí, gal-uisce
a chuireann greadfach im’ chraiceann, a fhágann
mo shúile scólta, a chealgann m’aghaidh
arís is arís eile. Tá an miasniteoir iompaithe
ina cuasnóg foichí, ag dordán, ag seabhrán,
na céadta sciatháin ar chreathán sa sobal. Caithim
an fhuinneog ar oscailt agus ar nós gaile,
éalaíonn siad, eitlíonn siad leo, scamall dubh scaoilte
chun na spéire, amach san oíche beo.

First Published in Oighear (Coiscéim, 2017)