Diarmuid ó Maolalaí
The Black Dress with Polka Dots
that You Wore to the Cat Cafe
the poems I write
aren't worth giving a name.
I think a lot now
about coming home from canada
after 3 months of carrying you in my pocket.
there is a whole soul there,
small as a rabbit,
light as the sun on piano keys,
willing
to spend the day in bed together
with red weather
like an animal at the window.
you were a scientist
in a dress that slid over your shoulder and you
were so shy and so
beautiful
and so happy when you saw a cat.
I could have bought you gifts of rose and myrrh
and purple silk and
pigeonfeathers. my fear
of being distant
drove us apart
like china
in a shop
owned by a helpful lady.
I think I fell in love
when you spent all night talking about cells
and seemed to love them.
I think
I could have dropped a glass of water
and you would have been able
to pick it up for me.