the sea’s night-blackened surface
is frayed with shimmering lights
from the slow-turning ferris wheel’s reflection
like a tired clock
too late I’ve realised that you want women
running from your hands like water
that when you watched me
swimming in the spring you saw a myth before you
a woman’s true form
but what you got was a whore.
where is the girl you called otter? no
you are no more aroused by my nakedness
than by the clothes I cast at your feet
the curled sea-whisper
urges me to bite those feet and hear the bone-splinter-
sea-shell crack. a furred shadow
I’d make for the ocean slip
below flecks of rainbow light and leave you staring
at where I disappeared as if in dread
of something you had made.
Róisín Kelly was born in Northern Ireland in 1990 but since then she has called various places home, including Leitrim, Mayo, Galway and Cork. In 2013 she won the short story competition run by NUIG’s student newspaper, and was shortlisted in both the poetry and fiction categories for the Cúirt New Writing Prize that year. She has a poem published in the latest issue of Wordlegs and will feature in Crannog and Skylight 47 and in the Raving Beauties anthology (Bloodaxe 2015).